tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26792501247486825782024-03-05T15:44:23.408+01:00Nestled Between the Mountains and a FjordThis blog is a journal of my year in Bergen, Norway, as a Fulbright ETA.HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-7225891596243973872012-06-18T16:01:00.002+02:002013-10-30T03:02:31.343+01:00So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGyFuGyMcOTujD58lAEpgSuZdwELXP6o4T9KzqDf7tDv27gI3KkbEpIh48rBJzAoZ7IyUxZx_R5gakKtXVUbDpFW015rkGJfoCztJuL_4sQY8l-yOajQ5P-VlF4Iw8h-z5jDjRx14n9c/s1600/296986_2090289537189_1243766959_32164213_1895194552_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGyFuGyMcOTujD58lAEpgSuZdwELXP6o4T9KzqDf7tDv27gI3KkbEpIh48rBJzAoZ7IyUxZx_R5gakKtXVUbDpFW015rkGJfoCztJuL_4sQY8l-yOajQ5P-VlF4Iw8h-z5jDjRx14n9c/s400/296986_2090289537189_1243766959_32164213_1895194552_n.jpg" width="316" /></a>What I’ve learned this year:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>How to cook pizza on a stovetop</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>To identify a person’s nationality by appearance,
accent, and flirtation style</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>To ski</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>That I need to live near mountains</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>The tension between the beauty of belonging and the
cruelty of exclusion</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>When to say “takk for maten, “takk for meg,” and “takk
for sist”</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>The glaciers are shrinking</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>Several systems of grading, none of which achieve
perfect objectivity</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>How to be Jewish without a community or rabbi</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>How wonderful it is to be Jewish without a community or
rabbi</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>Enough Norwegian to be on the cusp of fluency</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span>Contentment</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>The rudiments of salsa dancing</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>The pros and cons of an egalitarian education system</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>Rain is relative</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>A new way to express the ugly duckling adage: even
willow goblins blossom into lushness</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>Germans are intellectual, Italians playful, Russians
depressed, the Irish mischievous, and the Spanish will grab your butt without
warning</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>Those birds I thought so beautiful at the start of the
year are magpies, and therefore evil</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>“American” is a tricky term, subject to many conditions
and emendations</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>To look on each little hindrance as a jest and each
great one as the foreshadowing of victory</div>
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<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';">
</span></span>That I never want to stop teaching, and must never stop learning, so that I always have something to teach</div>
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A part of me worries that this is it; I’ve just had the
best year of my life and nothing will ever beat this. Then I remember that I
get to keep going, taking this year with me, and my mood lightens and breaks
into elation. </div>
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Takk to all who made this year wonderful. Bergen is the most
vakkert, nydelig, koselig city in the world, and I already long to come back.
Ha det bra, Bergen. So long, and thanks for all the fish.</div>
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Pictures from last week:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qOBH1y76ZKB6ciYXhMXgk9lmqyy3PoryZRNjMrsYPsaa_kYNWw_9a3f_qKv5GTMEPeYqPDdsa6Ljw7pbhL8tY3KyY4vrYwsSDvKLTVxptjlfWMQ3AAdDpJETAr9gD65PFACbZFwc5Eg/s1600/DSCF0158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qOBH1y76ZKB6ciYXhMXgk9lmqyy3PoryZRNjMrsYPsaa_kYNWw_9a3f_qKv5GTMEPeYqPDdsa6Ljw7pbhL8tY3KyY4vrYwsSDvKLTVxptjlfWMQ3AAdDpJETAr9gD65PFACbZFwc5Eg/s640/DSCF0158.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the ferry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JT1DHzc4hQf3fxlAZnHGSjYwc6j_589KpdDCyNrIGYOia8WLYj-NXSokDit_5Z9BsWLWsFrwWmaG_xiA_lPYJK8aENvPPUfOGZ1cKXA5ZPZkpJrESCwbLy7scbrwQedZeiivgXNGlZk/s1600/DSCF0168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JT1DHzc4hQf3fxlAZnHGSjYwc6j_589KpdDCyNrIGYOia8WLYj-NXSokDit_5Z9BsWLWsFrwWmaG_xiA_lPYJK8aENvPPUfOGZ1cKXA5ZPZkpJrESCwbLy7scbrwQedZeiivgXNGlZk/s640/DSCF0168.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surveying the terrain</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkj_E44_iYZ0F7VRzzoGRhyphenhypheny4VcBcRfvOgKeOB5C0XIW5YFtkkaLsTZNSJxFcFiUI9YlzNGzZG0QXolXr0AeDySiRcVI1wUV_7SJjHZneHbl4ZXGuKFEgQFsCJ1swz41cEwbWWmyjj_o/s1600/DSCF0190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkj_E44_iYZ0F7VRzzoGRhyphenhypheny4VcBcRfvOgKeOB5C0XIW5YFtkkaLsTZNSJxFcFiUI9YlzNGzZG0QXolXr0AeDySiRcVI1wUV_7SJjHZneHbl4ZXGuKFEgQFsCJ1swz41cEwbWWmyjj_o/s640/DSCF0190.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see me up at the top?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9PgXB8MJPkFNBBnuRj1aVo1MJmqQlznYqWee-aSBhcImK2oRCegAbjTV5zbEMm0bqgOjx11YurPsx1QmD1XRxe11uv_AsdEQVLMP7hweJc4Q0JksaQNSRE0NnqwzN2UdH4B_KWzAHwg/s1600/DSCF0208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9PgXB8MJPkFNBBnuRj1aVo1MJmqQlznYqWee-aSBhcImK2oRCegAbjTV5zbEMm0bqgOjx11YurPsx1QmD1XRxe11uv_AsdEQVLMP7hweJc4Q0JksaQNSRE0NnqwzN2UdH4B_KWzAHwg/s640/DSCF0208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSnh5Q9EWZBRiA6p3_7qWxbjY_twj0xMnMewsxjFpFSEni31pvYpsukiCnECsgnOnJtMqqDc3HzNKpxiesPQy55AwSEfwL6dbgesky3_nZvwYuPgsu_pXJGaQfoAOrwJ84TZkQ8q57mw/s1600/DSCF0212_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSnh5Q9EWZBRiA6p3_7qWxbjY_twj0xMnMewsxjFpFSEni31pvYpsukiCnECsgnOnJtMqqDc3HzNKpxiesPQy55AwSEfwL6dbgesky3_nZvwYuPgsu_pXJGaQfoAOrwJ84TZkQ8q57mw/s640/DSCF0212_2.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naomi exulting in her first fjord</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLkW_Ayhwp5KFz8S7IPuNmmOngoFn3s_3sditi56BRjUnUz-x6eSvcRJmUN17lyRnRSlt2z4G2aLzY2jJZS3bVTuoJxn3k2V7XQPXB_xYxXBH2qxDAKsnjpmELmRIh91yPU70n88Pnmg/s1600/DSCF0215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLkW_Ayhwp5KFz8S7IPuNmmOngoFn3s_3sditi56BRjUnUz-x6eSvcRJmUN17lyRnRSlt2z4G2aLzY2jJZS3bVTuoJxn3k2V7XQPXB_xYxXBH2qxDAKsnjpmELmRIh91yPU70n88Pnmg/s640/DSCF0215.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lysefjord<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVZZ0FcV7RCRwhOq6cxtnCxNmBKRqVoyjp6pjBv_3rMrv7mjRdwG7AIc7uVbtl1MxSstOCqckoJAUztrLpswN2S_yTK5vZlvkjgRcgeOKkxxz9Izv5RdRZNWaMqI_YyRUMe4xiNW37jI/s1600/DSCF0225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVZZ0FcV7RCRwhOq6cxtnCxNmBKRqVoyjp6pjBv_3rMrv7mjRdwG7AIc7uVbtl1MxSstOCqckoJAUztrLpswN2S_yTK5vZlvkjgRcgeOKkxxz9Izv5RdRZNWaMqI_YyRUMe4xiNW37jI/s640/DSCF0225.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling on Preikestolen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MB3lxGJ7dbaEzqt-JOxFbtdyQMGZvXdBdujD7ejEgeZvCfJHDwiOez7gCOGmWYGPr4h6Czz3oc_5-ETBRvYj4OFCoB3RJVXlAUzcwLimU3q_YfZkuWiojcRHN5NtsJx1fiwTj_YtNh8/s1600/DSCF0234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-MB3lxGJ7dbaEzqt-JOxFbtdyQMGZvXdBdujD7ejEgeZvCfJHDwiOez7gCOGmWYGPr4h6Czz3oc_5-ETBRvYj4OFCoB3RJVXlAUzcwLimU3q_YfZkuWiojcRHN5NtsJx1fiwTj_YtNh8/s640/DSCF0234.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picking a good spot to build my farm and live forever</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegY4bavLw5weWK3QRayvMvSVt7kvYCc5qdfRrhF_N2ShQsTXLyrEVbCjF8PZjapiAwhk_m2WyaB2HLEJkiAmMvwWWs4ifixIYG-Shwk8UBxSbCJF5hcMNFfaDDn640Pb5ujC1R2J2ruk/s1600/DSCF0244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegY4bavLw5weWK3QRayvMvSVt7kvYCc5qdfRrhF_N2ShQsTXLyrEVbCjF8PZjapiAwhk_m2WyaB2HLEJkiAmMvwWWs4ifixIYG-Shwk8UBxSbCJF5hcMNFfaDDn640Pb5ujC1R2J2ruk/s640/DSCF0244.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yoga poses!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_Ap1CtI7x_T_W-i_g0erEmEoVS76pq_KS70WAu0HV1aToUtOge2BCLhFPdMLTXJwFtcveZpFGZluiqFvsJKka8wgBKOX5vRe1nYYBnV4T6bFxjs_LombaqEZTbGlP9Kyd686EoRITx8/s1600/DSCF0266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_Ap1CtI7x_T_W-i_g0erEmEoVS76pq_KS70WAu0HV1aToUtOge2BCLhFPdMLTXJwFtcveZpFGZluiqFvsJKka8wgBKOX5vRe1nYYBnV4T6bFxjs_LombaqEZTbGlP9Kyd686EoRITx8/s640/DSCF0266.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of the world...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq3CedyXkOVqyqMESXDbv-yAdMgT5wu6985vhmOKbb8dUZ7CjET8TmiQwcRPU8mFrvCSgA9wehJb2Pef9IeqjkTkoqmOAxXD_eX3Jn6ddXUIAq7gl_PpF9AxHLpz-Lw2nux8mGtEuy8c/s1600/DSCF0315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq3CedyXkOVqyqMESXDbv-yAdMgT5wu6985vhmOKbb8dUZ7CjET8TmiQwcRPU8mFrvCSgA9wehJb2Pef9IeqjkTkoqmOAxXD_eX3Jn6ddXUIAq7gl_PpF9AxHLpz-Lw2nux8mGtEuy8c/s640/DSCF0315.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How much do you like Bergen?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNirEsHuQ0DZbZfS-Ydyg8plNvmiPpXGKWEllAB_J8Mc6n-GI-wIxDQm-d9sVCDw3-7pWpHSItk0rqqvxwatjWH9VKslL5-aFjmrJjMnecKva301vdzh66vMd3yIKu-x-d1vKfxqaQos/s1600/DSCF0353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNirEsHuQ0DZbZfS-Ydyg8plNvmiPpXGKWEllAB_J8Mc6n-GI-wIxDQm-d9sVCDw3-7pWpHSItk0rqqvxwatjWH9VKslL5-aFjmrJjMnecKva301vdzh66vMd3yIKu-x-d1vKfxqaQos/s640/DSCF0353.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yoga on top of Floyen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmooUzVjyogTTTX7i7CGPjJxIL_au4NG-iyme2XNX-zp-o4G1FgDYJDxfpoDELYj54I8edjjf8nsJW5ke9NlgCyysIkwAA75FHNgIrjPEOxrX5IgaD9kxZhwpeOXjLjvN-GHX9HwfvvOQ/s1600/DSCF0327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmooUzVjyogTTTX7i7CGPjJxIL_au4NG-iyme2XNX-zp-o4G1FgDYJDxfpoDELYj54I8edjjf8nsJW5ke9NlgCyysIkwAA75FHNgIrjPEOxrX5IgaD9kxZhwpeOXjLjvN-GHX9HwfvvOQ/s640/DSCF0327.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My kids can bake! See the WJ? It's for "writing journal." Love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZQV9jY9ELYwn8dz0v9n0VsDAo5R8SqBBoTmieZsVIxbRBZi14lptZo6NpNoEThM9uTnA7YPHxx3UQheIZUVBwroLbGyTExMhyphenhyphenpWAovIMO6TP-gL2oDDJ_eRMtWkSu9CcRwr2axnHyLY/s1600/DSCF0332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZQV9jY9ELYwn8dz0v9n0VsDAo5R8SqBBoTmieZsVIxbRBZi14lptZo6NpNoEThM9uTnA7YPHxx3UQheIZUVBwroLbGyTExMhyphenhyphenpWAovIMO6TP-gL2oDDJ_eRMtWkSu9CcRwr2axnHyLY/s640/DSCF0332.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the bakers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM-qp9NKLWaPms5GOHUxDch4LnRMnJc7NjCImybXMMLc1oLAz0YyUfH0-xsrMAyrBYZm2FP9ac7p2VOyBDwgsMYIebnYs7RUGvAsVRw-0F3lIk7ZMrvonIv8w5CY03zZDdMjuCUj1tVw/s1600/DSCF0345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM-qp9NKLWaPms5GOHUxDch4LnRMnJc7NjCImybXMMLc1oLAz0YyUfH0-xsrMAyrBYZm2FP9ac7p2VOyBDwgsMYIebnYs7RUGvAsVRw-0F3lIk7ZMrvonIv8w5CY03zZDdMjuCUj1tVw/s640/DSCF0345.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I only cried AFTER this picture</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERrp642Bs4DswZ76AiiYEdNPWGIWk4ip_SuKMlWAikVNutENmCNsVGn002nDpFZbpXxcdY9Y6HM2LAyLr4QpFKys2L4DMnJQUw34MZmckIdh1DdR_d_HzFsGS0bBfeuiMs-7GIFZ8uXU/s1600/DSCF0359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERrp642Bs4DswZ76AiiYEdNPWGIWk4ip_SuKMlWAikVNutENmCNsVGn002nDpFZbpXxcdY9Y6HM2LAyLr4QpFKys2L4DMnJQUw34MZmckIdh1DdR_d_HzFsGS0bBfeuiMs-7GIFZ8uXU/s640/DSCF0359.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nordnes at sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-12528227155392888782012-06-17T19:29:00.001+02:002012-06-17T23:04:14.502+02:00What Kind of Town Is This?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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An interesting email found its way to me last week: Rav
Schrader, the head of Nishmat’s post-college program when I studied there,
emailed to say a friend of his would be in town. We emailed back and forth a
bit about where to find kosher bread and how there’s no eruv, and ever happy to
play chabad, I invited David, a professor of early childhood education from
Efrat, who was in Bergen for a conference, over for Shabbat lunch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTUiW8L0iMv120eISzgmg-y8G8SX76n5C-W3JCqeQBuTco3bP0zmzbA2Ba5O88WMI4E90iZTodRjptyCPxYJZZW9TeLy5FsWZsoVhnrp8FzEZfA1Q3ISTJHSDMyZWJRjAPAYt2Wjx-j4/s1600/Waiting+for+Shabbat+Lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTUiW8L0iMv120eISzgmg-y8G8SX76n5C-W3JCqeQBuTco3bP0zmzbA2Ba5O88WMI4E90iZTodRjptyCPxYJZZW9TeLy5FsWZsoVhnrp8FzEZfA1Q3ISTJHSDMyZWJRjAPAYt2Wjx-j4/s400/Waiting+for+Shabbat+Lunch.jpg" width="400" /></a>It turned out to be a delightful lunch. He’s writing a book
on male preschool teachers, and he asked my two musical friends (Sarah the
Fulbright flautist and Victoria the Norwegian-American violinist visiting from
Oslo) about gender differences in music. We talked at length about music,
Norwegian gender trends, Judaism in Norway, and whether he had become a
professor of early childhood education to avoid the stigma of being a male
early childhood educator (my question—can’t you smell the impertinence of it?).
I had a little crisis right at the beginning when I asked him to make kiddush.
Since all I knew about him was his friendship with Rav Schrader, I suspected
he’d be more comfortable making kiddush than hearing mine. But I wondered if I
was betraying my own principles and abilities—after all, I’ve been making kiddush
for myself all year. And then he developed the conversation onto gender grounds
and I started kicking myself mentally! Just goes to show, you never know a
person until you know what the subject of their book is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afterwards Sarah and David and I walked up to the Stavkirke
for a little poke around its architecture. The rest of Shabbat was a hazy,
rainy blur of books and sleep. It will be rather nice, in its own little way,
to make havdalah on Saturday night again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday dawned gray but dry, so I went for a run and came in
past Storetveitkirke just as the first drops were falling. And then began the
packing… I’d like to say it was epic, but it wasn’t. I like to pack. It appeals
to my OCD. My suitcases each have a bit of extra space. No worries… more room
for chocolate! I did my last Fantoft laundry, cursed out the dryer for the last
time, helped the last feckless newcomer with the machines’ Norwegian
instructions, and collected a big pile of goodies for Ida, next year’s Bergen
ETA.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today Aung San Suu Kyi, the Burmese pro-democracy politician
who has been under house arrest for fifteen years, spoke on the
Torgallmennigen. Her first recognition was from Bergen, so it was fitting that
she return here to speak. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihe0KTpHib3GAJk41rINexvYwX40rJkkGnZVooCHPtImOy91WqiAV6lYXpoQrchqbnWfIMD558e4cmywrtQrtLOE9sL0xdeZv7Q6Sba15StrhB6QIpbUjoJQPCsLyosPT6swNXQaPYnlg/s1600/300px-Torgallmenningen_in_Bergen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihe0KTpHib3GAJk41rINexvYwX40rJkkGnZVooCHPtImOy91WqiAV6lYXpoQrchqbnWfIMD558e4cmywrtQrtLOE9sL0xdeZv7Q6Sba15StrhB6QIpbUjoJQPCsLyosPT6swNXQaPYnlg/s400/300px-Torgallmenningen_in_Bergen.jpg" width="400" /></a>I found the town square filling up, the wings of the street
crushed with masses of humanity and the center in front of the stage filled
solid. We had to wait to hear from Kyi—her introduction took longer than her
speech. Finally, the roar from those lucky enough to be standing center told us
she’d mounted the platform. A very proper British accent floated over the heads
of the crowd. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She praised Bergen for its diversity. “You Norwegians have
taken people who are not Norwegian to your bosom. You have sheltered my Burmese
people, and people from all around the world.” While the crowd roared its
agreement with this nice sentiment, I filed away discomfort with the
assumptions she was making about whether one people has the power to protect
another for later digestion. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, she announced the importance of a balance between
freedom and security. Yes, honored Lady. You figure that one out, the world
ends right now with a blast of trumpets and the flutter of angel wings. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ended by asking a question about why the Bergensk care so very much about the world around them. “What kind of town is this,”
she said, “that produces people like this?” Yes, I affirmed silently in my
mind. You asked the right question. What kind of town is this, that produces
people like this? This<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2679250124748682578" name="_GoBack"></a> is Bergen. And we are happy to see
you today. </div>
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<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-15620470991730102902012-06-15T20:14:00.004+02:002012-06-17T07:39:11.471+02:00Six Out of Seven<br />
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Bergen has seven mountains, and as of yesterday, I have
hiked six of them. Of course, I scramble up Ulriken nearly every third day, and
Løvstakken at least once a week, so I don’t think that I’ve been lacking in my
attentions to them. But Damsgårdfjell has evaded me time and time again, and
with only three days left in Bergen, one of which is Shabbat, and my suitcases
lying untouched in my closet (actually, they’re completely ungettable—I have to
take my shelves out in order to get the suitcases), I doubt I’ll have time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thursday morning Sarah and I tackled Lyderhorn, Bergen’s
most westward mountain. It was also the least lovely of those I’ve hiked so
far. The hike began behind an industrial dock, and we spent at least half an
hour on cement before the path turned to proper rock and dirt and mountains
scrambling. The view showed us the sea and the airport that I’ll be heading out
of so very soon. On the peak we found a mad clutch of Norwegian schoolchildren,
jumping chaotically in every direction. We decided to leave quickly. But we
never found the trail down.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwNTHbIg4PNsIf7p36DwsYwi6wgAKexjyQNtwQW4DDSDG2-AbuC55SlrbBT3NzSSNSlmAX2BP3rDmpoKDjX2JDGu3o8vUtkoeL6vyzA-IVPfDS7d_dK8-Q2KRu2i3PRzfDaeAQ9mV8Kk/s1600/lyderhorn+ferdig+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwNTHbIg4PNsIf7p36DwsYwi6wgAKexjyQNtwQW4DDSDG2-AbuC55SlrbBT3NzSSNSlmAX2BP3rDmpoKDjX2JDGu3o8vUtkoeL6vyzA-IVPfDS7d_dK8-Q2KRu2i3PRzfDaeAQ9mV8Kk/s400/lyderhorn+ferdig+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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That was a good dangler, right? You’re sitting there reading
and wondering if I’m actually still on top of the mountain, dictating my blog
posts by phone to a compliant sister-secretary. Nope. We bush-wacked our way through
prickles and branches, slid down a few sheer rock faces, stepped deep into oozy
mud disguised as land by moss, and after lots of hard work, came out on the
wrong side of the mountain, across from a beautiful cemetery. We lingered there
a bit, reading the names (I would love to give one of my children a Norwegian
name, maybe Lars or Halvor or Astrid), and then headed back to the city.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That evening I went over to Yael’s and Birgitte’s to say
bye, and we ended up going to the Løvstakken farm to buy eggs. Have you ever
seen fresh eggs? Did you know that they come in different shapes and colors,
and even, in the case of calcium deficiency, shapes? My friends showed me the Løvstakken
owl in his crook of the tree. Or maybe they showed me to him. He regarded us
every bit as solemnly as we did him, and turned his head to watch us as we
moved. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The weather forecast says this is to be my last sunny day in Bergen.
I woke up early to take full advantage, and, with heavy heart, climbed Landåsfjell
up to Ulriken and around to the stony path down one last time. I heard bells and saw sheep grazing by one of the lakes at the top. How do they get them up there, I wonder? The sheer
breathtaking beauty of every crag and pristine coldness of each lake gives me a
small sharp pain when I realize I must leave it. How joyous, to simply move
through beauty and accept it as the norm instead of having to hoard and hoard
against return to ugliness. </div>
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<br /></div>
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While hiking down, my conscious mind busy with
pre-nostalgia, another part of my brain got away from me and made up this
hiking ditty. Normally I wouldn’t share, but since most of you won’t understand
it, and the Norwegians are too nice to say anything other than “flink!” here
goes:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gå oss opp eller gå oss ned,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Md6NwmEXmS2LNt8sOE5L69_ReV7VJ7B_gVslrHvSGTkrw45mZScVlN4PvTehMAUUi5q7anG69Cly3HkjkNq9IxER05ePGzQ_i8gdkMIh6GtbawL5mxkIjwtYaB2C9XNpyuYNzTbhFvk/s1600/cr069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Md6NwmEXmS2LNt8sOE5L69_ReV7VJ7B_gVslrHvSGTkrw45mZScVlN4PvTehMAUUi5q7anG69Cly3HkjkNq9IxER05ePGzQ_i8gdkMIh6GtbawL5mxkIjwtYaB2C9XNpyuYNzTbhFvk/s400/cr069.jpg" width="400" /></a>Vi gå oss altid å finne oss fred.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eller gå vi ved fjord, eller gå vi ved fjell, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Å spise brødskive er viktigst del,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Å gå på tur kan er lit vanskelig, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Men utsikten er altid veldig nydelig, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Og å sovne i hytta er meste koselige,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should be completely forlegen about putting this online,
but one needs a rhythm when hiking, and most people aren’t bashful about the
weird things their minds get up to while they’re absent, so why should I
be? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the afternoon I ran a slew of errands in town and then
came to Katten for the teacher’s goodbye fest. I sat with the youngest
teachers, a sweet and hesitant crew that I’ve made friends with over the course
of the year. We talked in between speeches and flower-offerings and songs (they
all chimed in on an old folk song about strawberries that turn into boys that
turn into memories), and then headed back to our teacher’s cabin to chill with
the beer Anita had brought, and finally I said goodbye to everyone in a hearty
farewell and came home to prepare for my last Shabbat in Bergen. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2679250124748682578" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOn-JX_U-25wnILkbz1MsTP2OmHLtylMNVRG5d1zwWgZY252W4P7OEZidqpnsV660jk-zfhxCRRZtkduVKuk31huC_LEIGeQaIcMjqQ7Up61VIaADBxwkZA8cOKxhE6s3AwdjThxS_gM/s1600/hydrangea-flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOn-JX_U-25wnILkbz1MsTP2OmHLtylMNVRG5d1zwWgZY252W4P7OEZidqpnsV660jk-zfhxCRRZtkduVKuk31huC_LEIGeQaIcMjqQ7Up61VIaADBxwkZA8cOKxhE6s3AwdjThxS_gM/s640/hydrangea-flower.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I gave Anita thank-you flowers, though her I'll see again before I leave</td></tr>
</tbody></table>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-9501163987994193042012-06-13T14:49:00.001+02:002012-06-14T22:42:49.260+02:00Old Friends at the Tip of the World<br />
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One of my oldest friends, Naomi, came to visit last Wednesday. We’ve been bests since an altercation over property rights on the monkey bars in first grade, and our friendship has continued along those lines all these years. I’d forgotten how nice it is to have someone around who speaks my language—and I don’t mean English. We’ve been friends so long our silences mean as much as our words. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjml1ghEE6B4p5Gkn_DIMcRZarDTGIzwBRudFn1kYngFsPOsblhgWqIH2Ao265FoOqwjodiv6wzgFs7BUa9uLEFw_8ZkSghmS3E05FVzmJ8rBuXIIBI3yh_EUF-d1a4UAf0yNeVyo0qOVY/s1600/Gamlehaugen_thumb%5B3%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjml1ghEE6B4p5Gkn_DIMcRZarDTGIzwBRudFn1kYngFsPOsblhgWqIH2Ao265FoOqwjodiv6wzgFs7BUa9uLEFw_8ZkSghmS3E05FVzmJ8rBuXIIBI3yh_EUF-d1a4UAf0yNeVyo0qOVY/s320/Gamlehaugen_thumb%5B3%5D.jpg" width="240" /></a>We set up an enngangsgrill on the lawn outside my apartment and tossed a Frisbee back and forth while we waited for salmon, peppers, and zucchini to cook. Perle and Sarah J joined us for dinner, providing a delightful clash of personalities. It’s not that they didn’t get along; it’s that Perle’s breezy irreverent Frenchness shows up Sarah’s prudish polite Midwesternness to delightful advantage, and they each appeared more themselves than when alone. Naomi and I enjoyed the differences as we moved around the picnic table in a steady game of musical chairs orchestrated by the direction of the grill’s smoke. After dinner we walked down to Gamlehaugen to the fjord lookout to talk and drink the last of my beer. There is something especially savory about drinking in the king’s garden when public drinking is illegal in Norway. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our conversation was typical in its Norwegian vs. American characteristics: I suggested an ideal world in which injustice and inequality of opportunity are systematically eradicated, while Naomi staunchly defended a charity-based system in which inequity continues, and is addressed by those individuals who feel they wish to. She said she didn’t want anyone invading her right to choose what she does: independence is more important to the American than equality. And yet I don’t think this is a difference in thinking that’s been caused by our lives this past year—I think my choice to live in Norway was a reflection of the views I already hold. Charity has always seemed a symptom of a broken system.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thursday morning we hiked up Løvstakken and along the ridge, stopping at sun-splashed rocks to stretch the view out as long as we could. That afternoon we took the bus along the coast south to Haugesund. The ride astounded. We stood on the prow of the ferry, choosing islands to stake out as our own and braving the spray to stare out over vast misty vistas of water. Elise and Gunnar, the Norwegian couple we stayed with, met us at the bus station in Haugesund. They had rented a big car so that they could show us around the city in comfort. And did they!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsqzdve7IvcwG9725eoloRWYpX4-awuchAHYixbtfLx4xHd1Llr5vwyTdF0iRrNpmXKvL1DrwxU64y-_IlPh1m9K9o5v9SbJQxG_TGBNMAkVyhQWYt0Hg0ri7zy-JDS-pLNQsYsY7A3w/s1600/haraldshaugen2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsqzdve7IvcwG9725eoloRWYpX4-awuchAHYixbtfLx4xHd1Llr5vwyTdF0iRrNpmXKvL1DrwxU64y-_IlPh1m9K9o5v9SbJQxG_TGBNMAkVyhQWYt0Hg0ri7zy-JDS-pLNQsYsY7A3w/s400/haraldshaugen2010.jpg" width="266" /></a>We started out at Haraldshaugen—literally, Harald’s How. Harald Hårfager was the first king to unite a large portion of Norway into one kingdom. His obelisk stood at the top of a hill beside the sea, surrounded by smaller plinths for each of the smaller kingdoms he’d united. Standing in this memorial to Camelot, we watched the sun plunge toward the sea, and then raced up to Steinfjellet—Stone Mountain—for a last view of sunset and all of Haugesund. It’s further south than Bergen, and so actually gets dark around midnight. We visited the fem dårlig jomsfruer—the five bad virgins— which are ancient skinny stones standing beneath a bridge, and the memorial of Moritz Rabinowitz, Haugesund’s one Jew, where we placed the only stones on his pedestal that he will likely ever have. Naomi and I were exhausted by the time we arrived back at home, and seriously impressed with Elise and Gunnar’s knowledge and energy. </div>
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Friday we went to Avaldsnes, the Viking museum and village. The museum began with a movie which was mostly Lord of the Rings in Norwegian, down to soldier-kings with flowing locks and a ring heirloom. After seeing the Viking festival and deciding not to invest in miniature Viking swords, we picnicked on what, Naomi pointed out mid-lunch, were probably Viking burial mounds. I’m sure they didn’t mind. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntYBuGxOAanTwpjE31WQ6gv-3CMElHEK9MxrTanUs-oZrONLg9LQz7xbJ2zX6aX1qAFLW_8xQoIgC0UVv-OJN5nk7FTrQ7TcpfgylLprhH3Dfr52h89e_ky6lR1ZrEYTxzvP0geIEnxE/s1600/avaldsnes_church_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntYBuGxOAanTwpjE31WQ6gv-3CMElHEK9MxrTanUs-oZrONLg9LQz7xbJ2zX6aX1qAFLW_8xQoIgC0UVv-OJN5nk7FTrQ7TcpfgylLprhH3Dfr52h89e_ky6lR1ZrEYTxzvP0geIEnxE/s320/avaldsnes_church_large.jpg" width="320" /></a>After lunch Elise and Gunnar drove us to one of the Karmøy beaches looking westward out to the North sea. The water was a deep teal, with lighter green in spots, and the sand white as teeth. I tore off my shoes and ripped over the sand, not pausing until the beach ended in a tumble of slippery rocks. Naomi followed, and we clambered up to peer out over the sea at the distant island which, Gunnar said, was the last stop before Scotland. We finished the day at the outlook on the nes where the sailors’ return was watched for, and made Shabbat early so that we could plunge into bed and immediate sleep. </div>
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Shabbat was a peaceful mix of reading, sleeping, and long walks on the rocky beach near Elise and Gunnar’s home. We climbed the steps outside one of the lighthouses and sat on the platform with our feet dangling off, watching the waves roll in and fill the deep crevices on the rock slabs below us. In the evening, Naomi and I sat and sang, bringing back the years before. </div>
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Sunday Elise readied an enormous breakfast for us. The table creaked under heaps of cherry tomatoes, moon slices of honeydew, butter and jam and honey, greens of cucumber sliced thin and transparent, and a fancy assortment of crackers and teas. Such runnings to the computer to check if the cheese’s løpe was vegetariansk or animalsk! And three baskets of strawberries and a platter of peaches and grapes that I guarded as jealously with my eyes as ever Mrs. Ramsay did, yogurt and granola and little chocolates for dessert. We boarded the bus to Stavanger with awe for their fullbodied hospitality.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC6UgiNREf5JrlAQ9qvTUAo2i9oSBQw0WE2NtQaXYow5Vm0b6kJrTt_KISErhjyyebmx4hbeFKGk-VF04Xzat55zVkBW9HtxODYywZOa26HekKtdBaijdJU7P6vRK08YRIYRzBNCOLj0/s1600/32131360.Noorwegen20040708Preikestolen21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUC6UgiNREf5JrlAQ9qvTUAo2i9oSBQw0WE2NtQaXYow5Vm0b6kJrTt_KISErhjyyebmx4hbeFKGk-VF04Xzat55zVkBW9HtxODYywZOa26HekKtdBaijdJU7P6vRK08YRIYRzBNCOLj0/s400/32131360.Noorwegen20040708Preikestolen21.jpg" width="293" /></a>We stopped in Stavanger to eat a mango beside the bird-infested pond, then took a ferry to Tau and headed from there to the Preikestolen fjellstue, where we were staying the night. The Preikestolen hike is very much too beautiful to be described. It rises above the lake beside the hostel, threads through the mountains, up a tumble of rocks above the tree line, between two still-as-glass mountain lakes black and clear in the sunlight, and around a ledge to the fjord. The Preikestolen is named after its shape; it means ‘Preacher’s Rock’ in English. We sat on the edge for awhile, posing and peering over, and then jumped up to rummage around on the rocks and overlooks above it, where the mass of humanity died out to occasional sightings and ubiquitous cairns every few feet that shouted “man has been here! He has made it this high! He has piled these rocks to prove it!” There was something about the view, the fjord working its way between the mountains below us, that tinged the hike with spiritual meaning. It was the very tip of the world, and we sat on it and peered over unafraid. </div>
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On the way down, we rested by the lakes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The setting sun slanted across the surface in a long carpet inviting us in. My thoughts are sometimes like those glints of reflection—scattered, frenetic, sharp little points of light that merge and blend and seem to create a pattern but I can never quite pick it out… We reached the hostel at eight and piled gratefully into bed at nine. </div>
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The next morning we walked partly around the lake near the hostel. An island in the middle beckoned to us, and Naomi swore to a bridge mirage, but as we circled the lake it became clear it was a dream of connection that didn’t exist. Back in Stavanger, we lunched at Godt Brød (oh how I’ll miss it!) before walking through the alleyways, Old Stavanger (not as nice as Bryggen, my loyalty must insist, and rightfully so), along the wharf, and back up to the cathedral in the center of the town. On our trip back to Bergen, we almost missed the bus as it prepared to drive off a ferry—we’d been up at the back of the boat watching our wake unfurl over the water, and missed the announcement to board. </div>
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Tuesday dawned gloriously in Bergen. I made pancakes for breakfast. Only Americans can truly understand that pancakes mean love. We strolled into town at a leisurely pace, marking Bryggen shops and ending at Rosenkrantz tower, where we moved from dungeon to outlook, stopping to learn the history in between. Then we ran back to Katten for my last class with my high schoolers.</div>
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I hadn’t been sure how to say goodbye to them without missing something, so in a fit of impatience, I cut up quotes that applied to each student. They each got part of a quote (Live as if you were to die-- --tomorrow, learn as if you were to live forever) and had to find their match. What sweet giggles as they scampered around the classroom trying to match meaning and rhythm! Once they were all satisfactorily paired the readings rolled around the classroom, filling their ears with Kipling’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If</i> and Rilke’s advice. Then they unveiled the box that had been sitting on the desk. They had baked me a triple-decker chocolate cake! With my name and decorations and ‘WJ’ for writing journal! Everyone piled their plates with goodies (my contribution—kviklunsj they must pretend were kitkats, and peanut butter to dip it in, American-style) and set down to some serious last-day-of-school partying. I moved around the classroom, trying to find the words for each individual student and hearing ripples of happy laughter through the room. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvY6N6ESi4Nrg9UKM6vbLpnCwPZwupaFt2EE8pb5n_HmPuuCItHPl57p5xQGisjxiweIfpFK4v-3rR7ffFlYDEL48aO6ZKNSACOAwDgY_LZPDw6JDGl90hW9XdTuumKtZ92X6aemw2y50/s1600/9_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvY6N6ESi4Nrg9UKM6vbLpnCwPZwupaFt2EE8pb5n_HmPuuCItHPl57p5xQGisjxiweIfpFK4v-3rR7ffFlYDEL48aO6ZKNSACOAwDgY_LZPDw6JDGl90hW9XdTuumKtZ92X6aemw2y50/s400/9_1.jpg" width="400" /></a>How absolutely horrid it is to be a teacher. At least as a parent one has one’s child for eighteen years. But my way, I care for them and hope for them and wish desperately that they will be happy and fill the promise they show now, and then wave them off and wish them luck in life and leave. Vilde T was the first to make me tear up by crying herself, and then Martin when he asked if he could, maybe, still write journal entries and send them to me? And then again when Elizaveta and Nasro came for their goodbye hugs and pictures, taken by a hilariously inept Johan (I couldn’t stop laughing—I’ve never seen an Asian struggle that much with a camera before). I made it through my final goodbye speech with grace, telling them all the things I’ve been thinking all year. That they’ve ruined me as a teacher, since I’ll never have a class this good again. That they should just keep being themselves, passionate about learning and fixing the world and taking care of each other. That if they ever come to America without looking me up they will be in seriously big trouble. And that they can always, but always send me anything they’ve written and I will read it with joy. I made it back to the staffroom before dissolving into tears. I sat at my desk and cried while Anita and Sigrun and Willem laughed at me, and then opened the presents piled on my desk (bunad salt and pepper shakers from my adult students, Norwegian hand-knitted slipper socks from Sigrun, beautiful earrings and wrist warmers from Anita), and then shook it off and headed back to Bergen to meet up with Naomi, glad I had a good old friend to cheer me up and keep me busy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7Ww00zgo1a8yLq9T0PU5j5oQmqe6Ey91VcTMT2axZpnGmZN3LF9Q0r2P9bjx9X7Odu8ABavYWyNBQHi3UfYcojSenlY1h-tt_Q0vlQfWiJbjOm3g9uxcEvDzdnvwGizUsy7CGgiaTRs/s1600/bg_bryggen4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7Ww00zgo1a8yLq9T0PU5j5oQmqe6Ey91VcTMT2axZpnGmZN3LF9Q0r2P9bjx9X7Odu8ABavYWyNBQHi3UfYcojSenlY1h-tt_Q0vlQfWiJbjOm3g9uxcEvDzdnvwGizUsy7CGgiaTRs/s320/bg_bryggen4.jpg" width="320" /></a>We browsed along Bryggen, buying gifts for family. Then we walked up Fløyen, lunching at the top (is it still lunch at 5pm?) at a picnic bench near the overlook. We strolled around to Skomardiket, and only when it looked like rain did we return to the Fløibanen overlook. But then the clouds blew over, so we bought softis and sat overlooking Bergen, watching the tourists too as they ebbed and flowed in front of us. We took the Fløibanen down and walked to the tip of Nordnes to prop our feet up on the rail at the northernmost tip of Bergen and watch the sun set and the waves roll in. It was the perfect end to a perfect day, you see, and returning along the boulevard with the willow goblin trees (they’ve bloomed and look quite lovely now) I cleared my mind of everything but delight in my old friendship, and hope for all my new. </div>
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<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-15873206114310322742012-06-06T15:46:00.002+02:002012-06-06T15:46:22.548+02:00Norway or Normal?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRl2FR6yejb4N67dFPF8lFtSiADst1LaNmYyxxVFxjQgNU4TfcuXPawdjFvaBiESBVcPOM4AWmnPldYhWBYxdLlcWAk0e37m_8GFNNyAQQM4hyQICP9Akh1_VGy7oZY-2aBP3BY-E5Oo/s1600/166014_10150840230397989_1584549107_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRl2FR6yejb4N67dFPF8lFtSiADst1LaNmYyxxVFxjQgNU4TfcuXPawdjFvaBiESBVcPOM4AWmnPldYhWBYxdLlcWAk0e37m_8GFNNyAQQM4hyQICP9Akh1_VGy7oZY-2aBP3BY-E5Oo/s400/166014_10150840230397989_1584549107_n.jpg" width="265" /></a>I met up with a few university students of religion Tuesday.
First Jew they’d ever met. I expected questions about kashrut, Israel, and
prayer, but instead found myself deep in theological debate about whether
belief or deeds are more important. I’m not sure if it’s the traditional Jewish
perspective, but to me, belief is important insofar as it impacts one’s
behavior. The Seventh Day Adventist was particularly curious about my
understanding of Jesus. At one point I asked her if it was upsetting to sit
face-to-face with someone who clearly believed something different from her
fundamental worldview, and she answered that she’d rather examine her beliefs as
closely as possible. Respect. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She raised Isaiah 53, which is standard Christian proof of
prophecy for Jesus in the Old Testament, and which Jews read as a continuation
of the metaphor for Israel as servant that’s used in Isaiah up until that
point. After returning home, I reread large swathes of Isaiah, and appreciated
the meeting’s inspiration of my learning. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzqOeH3TTzUiJ2IThHPdb34cUCI2DonAR44XwXQ4zmUy-0Th2E6CcxBvyy1NbrxHmOevfRgJ_UVusg9DIFSqA5oQrh0X5YKGpPIw8M7hVg8RP8UJ_2noj-qojoFrh52SXw-Ii03vfXZQ/s1600/545116_10150840229937989_1414408747_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzqOeH3TTzUiJ2IThHPdb34cUCI2DonAR44XwXQ4zmUy-0Th2E6CcxBvyy1NbrxHmOevfRgJ_UVusg9DIFSqA5oQrh0X5YKGpPIw8M7hVg8RP8UJ_2noj-qojoFrh52SXw-Ii03vfXZQ/s400/545116_10150840229937989_1414408747_n.jpg" width="265" /></a>That afternoon I ran my high schoolers through a fun, timed
writing exercise. As I looked around at their faces, so intent on their papers,
a surge of adoration swept me. These kids are so beautiful, so fully expressed
as personalities, with such potential for goodness. I don’t think I’ve seen a
group so cohesive and yet individual since my own high school class. And, yes,
I may be projecting, as you think, but trust me: such a comparison is an honor
I would not bestow lightly. After we’d finished the exercise, they kept calling
me over when they were meant to be preparing for their exams so I could read
their writing. Nothing stirs a teacher so much as a student’s pride and
enthusiasm in their work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZw5KvZyjC9NuTlairTecPL9gnn6u67cWp-jSwWEPcSCB2h2Ax4wIf1KR3_0PqhydnwifutyzWvaet5MrIcB5F5vIxz8j4omWmaS40L707mWixgEJUt5lMzoSNHyAo-QSbWeaqR5pSKk/s1600/422755_10150596026342989_1604126600_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZw5KvZyjC9NuTlairTecPL9gnn6u67cWp-jSwWEPcSCB2h2Ax4wIf1KR3_0PqhydnwifutyzWvaet5MrIcB5F5vIxz8j4omWmaS40L707mWixgEJUt5lMzoSNHyAo-QSbWeaqR5pSKk/s400/422755_10150596026342989_1604126600_n.jpg" width="265" /></a>Anita told them that next class would be my last. Heads
jerked up around the room, expressing a consternation that touched me to my
core. What can I say to my students? I’ve written plenty of goodbye and thank
you letters to teachers that gave me the world, but how can I explain to these
kids how they’ve touched me and how much, how very much, I want them to succeed
and be happy? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Today one of my oldest bestest friends comes in from the
States. We’re going down to Haugesund tomorrow to spend Shabbat there, and then
Stavanger and Preikestolen on Sunday and Monday. I’m looking forward to seeing
coastal Norway in all its glory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While skyping with another friend, he asked me what would be
the biggest shock upon returning to the States. He’d been amazed that it was
midnight my time and I still didn’t have the light turned on—the light
streaming through my window lit my whole room. I responded that I’m not
sure. After a year here, I’m no longer certain of what’s Norway and what’s normal.
I only know that I find peace here, and beauty, and serenity. And I would very much like to stay.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-10105107824579753352012-06-04T15:41:00.003+02:002012-06-04T19:14:49.622+02:00Vi Har Alt Men Det Er Også Alt Vi Har<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWzy3I0ZBW7o4PYcmNRWGT10JVJrv-kzZken0DgNouk0Htqwb5JorVLciCSznF92EsklSKCcNwyYqekGen0vVxvfQoRq-ttaDB162nypJCEExWiQkHDjVb6xNPDoLt6qLscjtm_IO1_0/s1600/IMG_5721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWzy3I0ZBW7o4PYcmNRWGT10JVJrv-kzZken0DgNouk0Htqwb5JorVLciCSznF92EsklSKCcNwyYqekGen0vVxvfQoRq-ttaDB162nypJCEExWiQkHDjVb6xNPDoLt6qLscjtm_IO1_0/s320/IMG_5721.jpg" width="320" /></a>Så, jeg har lovet mitt sjolv jeg skål prove å skrive en blog på norsk før jeg forlate Norge, og siden jeg har bare to uker, her går ingenting! </div>
<br />
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Fredag mitt klass gikk på tur opp Ulriken, fra Vidden til Rundamen, og ned Fløyen. Det var en gøy fem timer. Jeg spurt alt om neste år, og bare del av dem skal lærn internasjonal engelsk. Del vil lære seg matematisk og fysisk og kemisk isteden. De også fortalt meg om hvordan de gikk på tur her i natt når deg var yngre, med sin skoler, å si solned og solopp. Jeg var stolt jeg hadde ikke problem med farten. Men hele tid, jeg stoppet og snudde å si vakkert fjellet. Vi så Arna! Og fjellet med skog, og fjellet med snø. Vi bor i postkort. </div>
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Okay, så nå er jeg kjedelig av disse. Jeg kan ikke skrive interessante på norsk enna. Switching back… </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWp6cmOLlAWGZGJVF-9WHOnqxvLylUI7RQvVb8qePS-m1ULAfykkApTSCKz60dm6nw69QxzaGuslsJDpW-7OvBV4DOBRxhBtA5VawUEgpRC5JTBJ3glcFS7lReHQ8jh3DIqj9saw5bOqY/s1600/IMG_5806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWp6cmOLlAWGZGJVF-9WHOnqxvLylUI7RQvVb8qePS-m1ULAfykkApTSCKz60dm6nw69QxzaGuslsJDpW-7OvBV4DOBRxhBtA5VawUEgpRC5JTBJ3glcFS7lReHQ8jh3DIqj9saw5bOqY/s320/IMG_5806.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adorable</td></tr>
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As we dashed from rock to rock, careful not to trip on the trailing leashes of the dogs Marielle and Andrea had brought, I taught the kids the word ‘’snot rocket.’’ Of course I accompanied it with illustrations. They squealed when we descended the treacherous trail into the scar between mountains where in days of old, the Bergen-Oslo mail used to travel. It was rather like crawling down the shoulder of a giant, pausing for a break in his elbow, and then climbing back up into his creased and creviced stony hand until we came out on the lakes streaming between his fingers. (Never could I have managed that metaphor in Norwegian. I guess I have a few years until I become the next Fosse). There is beauty right over the mountain from Bergen that is incapacitating in its glory. Forget the darkness of pines mounting into snowcapped glory that I did such little credit to in my Norwegian description—the blueness of the lakes on Rundemanen alone could keep JC Dahl’s brush occupied for decades. I kept murmuring Tennyson’s ‘The Splendor Falls’’ to myself as we tripped down the mountain, our echoes thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going.</div>
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The kids stopped to cook some hot dogs and make hot chocolate at Skomardiket, but I had Shabbat to prepare for (with shabbat coming in at 10:32 pm, you can't be too careful about time), so I walked down with Ronja and Sarah. We talked about all the places in the world they’d like to visit, and where they’d been already. They’re going to Italy this summer to Sarah’s family’s house… wish I was European. </div>
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By the way, did I explain how I ended up crossing Vidden with my high schoolers? Anita and I had taken one of their gym classes earlier in the year to use for English, and now we gave it back to the gym teacher, who decided a day hike was in order. The wonder of a school that takes you into the mountains for gym class…</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzkyn_v9AaQbYRPskzyZR84Db3NeGP05ueLlLB8MkCejq5cglNVXMFR0aombkTCmJkDI5Xh7xLtO9ULOp5w2x1iI7QK2wYgQKLKGf0TP4ul9ZajZlNNlTk5X1hgRVy1G3auQEsvJ8M9Q/s1600/QrMPQRnqj28Hpb45Ha8fhQN_2ryaSLQ-BwHBVHGcWGnw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzkyn_v9AaQbYRPskzyZR84Db3NeGP05ueLlLB8MkCejq5cglNVXMFR0aombkTCmJkDI5Xh7xLtO9ULOp5w2x1iI7QK2wYgQKLKGf0TP4ul9ZajZlNNlTk5X1hgRVy1G3auQEsvJ8M9Q/s400/QrMPQRnqj28Hpb45Ha8fhQN_2ryaSLQ-BwHBVHGcWGnw.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They're probably angry that they can't spell 'strike' correctly...</td></tr>
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Norway’s on strike. I know, you’re thinking the same thing I was when I tried to go into the city hall to send my notice of change of address… what on earth do these Norwegians have to complain about? Well, the lowest level of government workers aren’t getting paid enough, and are in stage three of a beautifully orchestrated strike that includes trash collectors, government clerks, and airport security. The janitors at the Cathedral school are off, and the only person allowed to clean up is the headmaster—everyone else would be considered a scab. I’d like to see the rektor walking the halls with a mop. There’s something quite nice about it, as though this is his school more than anyone else’s and he’s the only one who gets to polish it. Then again, cleaning is my particular point of neurosis; when in the dumps, it only takes a few cupboards to straighten and I’m quite happy again. </div>
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Had my last cheider class. Oh, how I’ll miss those boys! They successfully put together a timeline of Jewish history, raced each other in a quiz that stretched from Let there be light to Israeli politics, and gobbled ice cream with voracious teenage boy joy. Afterwards Benjamin and Ruben’s dad came in to give me a hug and tell me I should stay in Bergen. I told him I’m thinking about it. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSj0EdjsXpzWno2cqmhDTtZDrHZrnFTrW29NAzyku-ppJWJS2ynZ_FVvjUo5bdOmVrhxZf33mWAQceZSau5Zpftot_iTkXRDeDCzQpjZqhWEFAvsw40qBlSfqdwJ2_AaPjtVUs39xptE/s1600/IMG_5811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSj0EdjsXpzWno2cqmhDTtZDrHZrnFTrW29NAzyku-ppJWJS2ynZ_FVvjUo5bdOmVrhxZf33mWAQceZSau5Zpftot_iTkXRDeDCzQpjZqhWEFAvsw40qBlSfqdwJ2_AaPjtVUs39xptE/s400/IMG_5811.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin and Halvor play Titanic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Sarah and I climbed Stoltzkleiven Monday morning. It’s the steep stone staircase that snakes up the side of Sandviksfjellet. My student Sara made me promise I’d do it when we talked about it on Friday. I found myself plowing up it easily, stopping only for mandatory admiration of the Bergen harbor below us. A year in Norway has done something wondrous to my leg muscles and lung capacity. As I looked out over the landscape, I wondered whether the sunlight is more splendid in Bergen than the rest of the world, or if it just shines on more beautiful objects. </div>
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Sunday morning, as I ran the trail on Løvstakken, I thought of all the runners who were doing the seven mountain hike. I felt very satisfied to be running my one mountain and leave the crazy Bergensk to their seven mountain marathon. I stopped at the new bench beside the horse pasture that overlooks the fjord and read its plaque. It seemed to say everything about Bergen: Vi har alt men det er også alt vi har. We have everything, but it is also all we have. Forest, mountain, fjord… everything and all. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioma9x5vSnMNoTdsXF14TaH65ikeYejpfAj4N4fh8MjR7lixJfd5FiQXr-QZFjmMHd4QxV-4eFg5O2JMQV43TxkRTyBFX-NGlfrRSYf29bT0w3NpdCixwatOagGX1FNH1v8zbYE-Yxws/s1600/IMG_5801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioma9x5vSnMNoTdsXF14TaH65ikeYejpfAj4N4fh8MjR7lixJfd5FiQXr-QZFjmMHd4QxV-4eFg5O2JMQV43TxkRTyBFX-NGlfrRSYf29bT0w3NpdCixwatOagGX1FNH1v8zbYE-Yxws/s640/IMG_5801.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-2515496063240047202012-05-30T15:49:00.000+02:002012-05-30T15:55:10.103+02:00København and Shavuot in Oslo<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RGTvf5f2ewx1edO_OvrDb1FaCZZiOX_BOBitVqkuzOAQ3qFiyfWhWE2Lxe5lbQ-6Sp-uir3wG8g8O6VBTHeOX18ZSDLj7510snYVOjO3gbTmofnDayWwovg3GMr4Fa6S22Z41MXYdew/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RGTvf5f2ewx1edO_OvrDb1FaCZZiOX_BOBitVqkuzOAQ3qFiyfWhWE2Lxe5lbQ-6Sp-uir3wG8g8O6VBTHeOX18ZSDLj7510snYVOjO3gbTmofnDayWwovg3GMr4Fa6S22Z41MXYdew/s400/Copenhagen+2012+013.jpg" width="400" /></a>Yellow tulips on black water. The lilac blush of cherry
blossoms blooms dimly against the town’s shops, matching the much subtler blush
of sunset above. Ducks sleep in pairs, sitting rather like the couples around
the octagonal pond. Arcs of water splash out in a jumble reminding me of the
mountains jumbled about Bergen. Everything has a counterpart this evening.
Hints of light glimmer in the corners of the dusk, and the moment begins to
take on the hue of a Monet as Bergen slowly, slowly, so slowly you might miss
it, turns into an Impressionist painting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The train pulls out at 10:58. I watch out the windows for awhile, as the sky
darkens into an ever deeper blue, then impatiently pull my sleep mask over my
eyes. One could wait for night forever, and never find it between Bergen and
Oslo. Anyhow, I won’t see it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NxeqVsMWsm9Do_lj0NeclsFdQJZFu_ytY-l1R6x9JzWHauYhSDJn2W9LS9l3FGo4pHnsL4yLB4XpRTQHcWQc_s4GFc5HiXfWr6WzDh84EGSxVnQIKwz2INLX9lejABE_cXs9-c9ULzU/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NxeqVsMWsm9Do_lj0NeclsFdQJZFu_ytY-l1R6x9JzWHauYhSDJn2W9LS9l3FGo4pHnsL4yLB4XpRTQHcWQc_s4GFc5HiXfWr6WzDh84EGSxVnQIKwz2INLX9lejABE_cXs9-c9ULzU/s320/Copenhagen+2012+005.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Definitely on vacation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So when I wake at 2 am it’s with awe that I look out over
the vast plains of snow in the shadows, an eldritch eerie scoop of majesty
across the mountains. In the blue dark, I feel I've seen something special, the only one awake on the train to catch the sheen of snow crystals. I wake again at Asker, and it is bright day. I have
a stiff train-smell on me, and wash with soap and brush teeth to drive it off.
I’m a seasoned traveler now; I even brought a little towel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Oslo is still awakening at 6:30 am. It’s going to be a
lovely day. Hot. In the 20’s. I find myself a shady corner of the Slottsparken
to rest in. This way I can wake up in a few hours and go straight to Åpent
Bakeri across from the Literaturehuset for breakfast. I doze some time, and
hear something approaching. Fast. A red dog, medium-sized, with droopy ears,
bounds up to me to make friends. Then away, to his owner: look what I found!
The man walks up the knoll, chuckling, “det er ikke ofte noen er her so
tidligere for min hund å spille med.” Ja, I answer, men det er en deilig dag,
og jeg har tid til min reise. “Hvor går du?” Copenhagen. “Og hvor er du fra?”
USA. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5s9fOQzZsepwJ59Iq-l7L4actN92_MAa9HQbREPROoqI55EvkWg4kzB-3eTokbma08EydzgbxzTZRoJfUKh9xfvAxEk03apEuFnpYygeSLDYoRG94GYelvAP0PSzcbJcTP4h9nUTyhkE/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5s9fOQzZsepwJ59Iq-l7L4actN92_MAa9HQbREPROoqI55EvkWg4kzB-3eTokbma08EydzgbxzTZRoJfUKh9xfvAxEk03apEuFnpYygeSLDYoRG94GYelvAP0PSzcbJcTP4h9nUTyhkE/s320/Copenhagen+2012+026.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What are you looking at?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I know how to play tourist, and I know that’s what he wants
me to be. Today is so grassy green and fluffy-clouded, I’ll play any
make-believe anyone wants. So I slip into the American praising Norway’s
beauty, and find it a simple, pretty kind of act. Then man and dog bound away,
and seconds later I hear another joyous meeting, of the more canine type. I lay
back in the fresh, leafy, grassy smell, pondering how the very breadth of the
wide leaves above me exude friendliness. Down on Karl Johan, an ice cream truck
drives its tune by, and I hear drums in front of the palace, a vague echo of 17
Mai.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have my leisurely croissant at Åpent and read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bridget Jones’ Diary</i> in Norwegian as I
eat. The story is crap, but full of contemporary expressions and useful slang
to keep my brain happy. I loaf down to Akker Brygge for a last gander at the
boats and statues in fountains, wave flippantly at the Nobel Peace Prize Hall,
and hotfoot it to the airport, where I promptly fall asleep and am awoken by
Amanda sheer moments before a deep, mellow gong sounds. The announcement informed
us that this calm noise was the fire alarm, and we slowly began to evacuate for
a few moments until the source of the smoke was found and everyone returned to
their seats as though this pleasant interlude is a common occurrence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGSLV0AHpUKSACxIDo83BbHnY17TxxiSHQFNk7iMXmk_IFp-RXAUTULZAYPZXXtEjOAojtQdlt3ltL7fjXu26xoCnPdeIWGy4Ii7FsdmsDgkyvYsVA-5LSf5Wzm5BPWNwH72jlX9ejwg/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGSLV0AHpUKSACxIDo83BbHnY17TxxiSHQFNk7iMXmk_IFp-RXAUTULZAYPZXXtEjOAojtQdlt3ltL7fjXu26xoCnPdeIWGy4Ii7FsdmsDgkyvYsVA-5LSf5Wzm5BPWNwH72jlX9ejwg/s320/Copenhagen+2012+003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hamlet's castle, thataways</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Copenhagen was 27<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">°. </span></b>My dismay at the heat
amused me for a moment, until I reflected that it would very likely be hotter
when I return to the US. We spent the evening strolling along the banks of the
Søerne. Well, we meant to, but we quickly found ourselves a bench and began a
long goggle-fest. Danish men are, without doubt, the most gorgeous in the
world, and most of them seemed to be embracing the weather by running topless
in it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We returned to our neighborhood, Nørrebro, stopping to buy a
mango from an Arab man who, upon inquiring my name (“Anna” to him), gave us a
prolonged Arabic lesson which I’m sure Amanda found new. I asked where he was
from. Palestine, Gaza. And? I wanted the story. Degree in engineering, the best
student in the West Bank, which is why Israeli soldiers kicked him out, into
Turkey, which also kicked him out, and now he’s here, selling vegetables in a
small shop in Copenhagen. True? Perhaps. Another perspective to add to my
store. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZKF_ieB8-86yFRuZpG_Xz9Bk4Y0XH90XHhQlkD5wGbXfnssRr30UPk4Wh2ez9p5Moj9J-FOSB7oJnsTcf5bW3PUb0wP9sGQkqWU7yeS-H6epmVR2ZFVB364vqyE7e8cMePd571dBB_g/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZKF_ieB8-86yFRuZpG_Xz9Bk4Y0XH90XHhQlkD5wGbXfnssRr30UPk4Wh2ez9p5Moj9J-FOSB7oJnsTcf5bW3PUb0wP9sGQkqWU7yeS-H6epmVR2ZFVB364vqyE7e8cMePd571dBB_g/s320/Copenhagen+2012+010.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside Nyboder Skole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We woke early to reach Nyboder Skole in time for the first
class. I explained who we were to the secretary in Norwegian, which she
understood, and she responded in Danish, which I didn’t. We followed her up to
Jakob Pusck’s Engliah classroom. He was as good-looking as the other Danes, and
spoke an emphatic punk English, urging his students “let’s keep it, real,
okay?” They were discussing democracy, and I got a jolt when, for the first
time in my life, I heard someone casually refer to “our prime minister, because
she would never—“ Knowing Denmark has a female leader and hearing it personally
in pronoun form are two completely different things. True to Scandinavian form,
Jakob turned the conversation into a discussion of gender inflection in
politics. Class was entirely discussion-based, mostly fueled by his charisma
and rapport with the students, who spoke a comfortable, colloquial English. The
next class tackled the Civil Rights movement, and then we sat with Jakob for a
break and listened to him talk enthusiastically about education in Denmark.
Like every other teacher I’ve ever met, he loves teaching, hates the system. As
we headed downstairs for the final class, we asked him why English teaching is
so much more successful in Scandinavia than the rest of Europe. He began to
respond with its necessity, but another teacher one floor up stuck her head out
and answered that it’s because they focus on communication before all else. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWwDYANqVtprcdu7dQ4eYd0_KfXBIuU8BjE3LFSDRTL4XFYY2gZ0_ntA6d0f8il0lukXT7OcSRjo3h1q_AOnWmF0nDI032GELlQ8SraCIY3O3js4a0nDdON9BB-NeXHeTDkPwrGyC-Os/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWwDYANqVtprcdu7dQ4eYd0_KfXBIuU8BjE3LFSDRTL4XFYY2gZ0_ntA6d0f8il0lukXT7OcSRjo3h1q_AOnWmF0nDI032GELlQ8SraCIY3O3js4a0nDdON9BB-NeXHeTDkPwrGyC-Os/s320/Copenhagen+2012+025.jpg" width="239" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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The last class was a group of students graduating in a week.
They were friendlier than the previous classes and intrigued by Americans (is
it true that they don’t teach evolution in American schools?). We got them
thinking critically about their own culture—are they spoiled because they were
each given macbooks by their parents? What are their thoughts on immigration?
Then we sped off into the city to explore Copenhagen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The day welcomed us with a sunny smile. It was delicious to
vanish into the parks by the Kastlen and wander across picturesque bridges and
past blooming bushes. We promenaded along the water front, snapping the
requisite picture of the lille havrefrue. In Danish, literally the little half
woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLxn5zHaQqwaGmpfcpRq1xBoWHi5AVlVRTGdKrN01kuX82PoHAmS-f4Rt6i4An6fh6hyphenhyphenNB4tF5oFQ9ZZwgJY8cWnwMjlP8dwmhVLbXYmj0Pyj4u-DUohaae-29ERC4XN__ODAeQQtHDQ/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLxn5zHaQqwaGmpfcpRq1xBoWHi5AVlVRTGdKrN01kuX82PoHAmS-f4Rt6i4An6fh6hyphenhyphenNB4tF5oFQ9ZZwgJY8cWnwMjlP8dwmhVLbXYmj0Pyj4u-DUohaae-29ERC4XN__ODAeQQtHDQ/s320/Copenhagen+2012+017.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most photographed statue in the world</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time we reached the Kongen’s Have (King’s Garden),
the sun and lack of sleep had exhausted us. We napped on the shady lawn,
surrounded by a sea of sunbathing Danes. When we awoke, Amanda had sharp red
blotches of sunburn on her shoulders. We toddled over to the castle in the
middle of the garden. It had a moat and looked so Disney, I wasn’t surprised
that Hans Christian Anderson’s worlds had sprung out of this city. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stumbled onto the longest pedestrian street in the world.
Drifted through bookshops, used clothing stores, and tea venders. I bought some
cheap plastic sunglasses and we tried on floppy glamour hats. We’d have needed
entirely new outfits to make them work, but perhaps then we might have fit in
with the Danish glamour theme better. The word on those streets was style. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn24eg7d4ksGfZ1su0rE75HqEOmz-hPhisyaMCjY1LhcrFqHr1RSftb-1nIPJ5oerOIYTXcMaNLHtalwgCLbqIYPdQmsTroycPLIKQ_yordfHVheNbqrOnindalNWXVljTm_EQkU-Sj3c/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn24eg7d4ksGfZ1su0rE75HqEOmz-hPhisyaMCjY1LhcrFqHr1RSftb-1nIPJ5oerOIYTXcMaNLHtalwgCLbqIYPdQmsTroycPLIKQ_yordfHVheNbqrOnindalNWXVljTm_EQkU-Sj3c/s320/Copenhagen+2012+051.jpg" width="320" /></a>Down by Rosenberg Castle, we ducked into the Nationalmuseet
for a moment’s relief from the sun. We found ourselves in gloomy rooms filled
with triptychs and Viking swords. That evening we parked ourselves at one of
the chic little bars near our apartment, and watched the chiseled-jawed and
chiseled-bodied bikers stream past. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Thursday morning we awoke to wander Nørrebro. The cemetery
where Kierkegaard and HC Anderson are buried was a veritable garden that just
happened to have stones with inscriptions in it. In fact, people biked through
as we watched! Searching for the greats’ graves was something of a scavenger
hunt, but eventually we found them and took our pictures. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A quaint little street led out of the cemetery. We peered
into bakeries, craft shops, and delightful little antique stores. We stopped to
watch a man roll out a slab of caramel in a window. He picked up a knife and
cut two little pieces off and held them up, then pointed to the door. Feeling
rather like a dog lured in with a bone, I followed Amanda in so she could bombard
him with questions. She has a gift for drawing people’s stories out of them,
which made it quite worth the sticky mess I had to hold in my hand and look
grateful about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKB4WKEZQqGsToIkMhxDlQZD8R856Z38F-Da2itVyADKaNH1m1O-uRa2nKy3WH4DCL8m61CX6MOe79tkeOxMy8nZpMK8NOVQ5YAsGMl-6PUv6w5sBqhp65x8ndezb4BA3C2D6qicSGVc/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKB4WKEZQqGsToIkMhxDlQZD8R856Z38F-Da2itVyADKaNH1m1O-uRa2nKy3WH4DCL8m61CX6MOe79tkeOxMy8nZpMK8NOVQ5YAsGMl-6PUv6w5sBqhp65x8ndezb4BA3C2D6qicSGVc/s320/Copenhagen+2012+061.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swans on the Søerne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we sat in a park discussing travel as a panacea for
ignorance and creating our own Danish fairytales (a dragon baker battles a
severely intolerant gluctose-intolerant crank), we were interrupted by an
attacking bulldog. It kissed our legs and slobbered towards our bags. I felt it
had crossed a boundary and reprimanded it primly. The owner approached
leisurely, arousing my ire until I watched her half-carry the dog away between
her legs like an unwilling sack of flour. Then I just felt pity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We followed a picnic lunch along the Søerne with the Danish
art museum. I was amused at the Scandinavian inclusion of Norwegians, Swedes,
and even Caspar David Friedrich in the Danish section. They’re very liberal
about claiming artists as their own. We sat a half hour sketching statues. My
reproduction of a little girl with an armful of kittens in her apron was quite
good until the last kitten, which came out looking more like a cartoon Pikachu.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQD5FPQe9GwQEroBewS41ADYmTmScQcjZHmEBzaOfQtJdmqmHzuTvdNPBpvFlTGYjmgSt95ez_njJu9xn68JhUEp96p9SoyH4Lv8JOHbnr1eo5bYx8wOQtYvvwmg5pH1XzNv_1p495cOY/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQD5FPQe9GwQEroBewS41ADYmTmScQcjZHmEBzaOfQtJdmqmHzuTvdNPBpvFlTGYjmgSt95ez_njJu9xn68JhUEp96p9SoyH4Lv8JOHbnr1eo5bYx8wOQtYvvwmg5pH1XzNv_1p495cOY/s320/Copenhagen+2012+071.jpg" width="320" /></a>We decided to walk across the city center, and found
ourselves in Christiana. Petter, the Fulbright director, had written an amusing
email when we applied for our travel grants, about his student visit in 1973,
when they “were all hippies, getting stoned, doing ceramics, and occasionally
discussing existentialism… worked for a couple of days at a shipyard in
Kristiansand and called it self-proletarianization.” That email had me rolling
on the floor laughing for days. Anyhow, Christiana was beautiful and hippy,
with green hair salons and health food stores every few feet. It screamed
trendy at us, and environmentalism seemed the latest fashion. I wanted to jump
over the side of the canal and chill in one of the boats. Instead we found
Noma, the best restaurant in the world, and took a picture beside a
disappointingly plain door. I guess they don’t need to advertise much. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirIbrEjOKZgi4Y86fHdM0ermmKYVp2u3jIRT0Hbegk97fAnkbbbIiyIkQnyEMBws2kWNRaxFnVSXWeaFr7mIyFaNBb7bHggy7vBXlf_R_KjdPxQPDEzszroN_UF9Ze_TQyqZaccKMmHw/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirIbrEjOKZgi4Y86fHdM0ermmKYVp2u3jIRT0Hbegk97fAnkbbbIiyIkQnyEMBws2kWNRaxFnVSXWeaFr7mIyFaNBb7bHggy7vBXlf_R_KjdPxQPDEzszroN_UF9Ze_TQyqZaccKMmHw/s400/Copenhagen+2012+084.jpg" width="298" /></a>We returned to the banks of the Søerne in the evening, armed
with ice cream and strawberries. It would be fair to say that most of our
vacation was spent sleeping, talking, and eating beside these lakes. For which
delicious experience, I would like to thank American taxpayers profusely. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Friday we found Amalienborg Palace on the wharf and walked
along fountains and sun chairs. Returning through the Strøget (that long long
long pedestrian street), I suddenly spotted Didi, the Bnei Akiva shaliach I’d
met at a shabbaton in Oslo. He gave us a grand tour of the shul, toblerone, and
bottles of ice cold water. The community center is gorgeous, with a big garden
and sukkah area, multi-floored offices, spa-like mikvah, and stately, enormous,
soaring shul. The kind of vibrant Jewish community implied by all this space
astounded me. I met the uncle of Joav (Norway’s rabbi), who’s president of the
Copenhagen shul. Sensing a Scandinavian rabbinic monopoly. After, Didi walked
us to the corner to buy a huge Maribou bar for the Oslo shlichot. I adore being
a shaliach shokolade. We didn’t have much time before our flight, so enjoyed a
last ice cream and picnic, and headed back to the airport. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgZx7hcrmtsoxaCAKIuthi8ZYwgEIkgvWitug5X9lErnWgkldeteYf7uk-fc-qf5p40fkhl2YXFprGrfIkT34H6DSNkZb38qqOaDsfbTpfsoLmHKTkOyYVoD8hywB1Bo8ulG5YMm7dKQ/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgZx7hcrmtsoxaCAKIuthi8ZYwgEIkgvWitug5X9lErnWgkldeteYf7uk-fc-qf5p40fkhl2YXFprGrfIkT34H6DSNkZb38qqOaDsfbTpfsoLmHKTkOyYVoD8hywB1Bo8ulG5YMm7dKQ/s320/Copenhagen+2012+083.jpg" width="320" /></a>That night in shul, I watched a scene that brought tears to
my eyes in its representation of Jewish life in Europe. Joav’s oldest son came
late into shul, and as he started to cross his father’s seat to reach his own,
he was arrested by Joav’s hand. No kippa. I watched from above as a pantomime
unfolded. Joav’s hand flipped out twice in a clear message—get a kippa, or get
out. The boy, Ariel, is too old for the Jewish barnehage (gan), and goes to a
Norwegian school, where he doesn’t wear a kippa. Can’t really, just as Didi
took his out of his pocket when we entered the gates of the shul in Copenhagen.
It makes one wonder to see turbans, hijabs, and saris throughout the streets of
Europe and yet realize Jews aren’t safe in kippot.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZpwHUwpEC6GkaEcflV8tt_BjRjllv0VDuNEEm8gAzbrEnR1qbZAkBZnSG0H8pDyqazIlh9iTZ2FfFoaUd09iGxCLpkHpiTscgUSPsH6gsHr8UbIoGj58393PUjiGc3272gD0CLScE6X0/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZpwHUwpEC6GkaEcflV8tt_BjRjllv0VDuNEEm8gAzbrEnR1qbZAkBZnSG0H8pDyqazIlh9iTZ2FfFoaUd09iGxCLpkHpiTscgUSPsH6gsHr8UbIoGj58393PUjiGc3272gD0CLScE6X0/s320/Copenhagen+2012+008.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copenhagen was filled to the brim with bikes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Ariel returned after a moment, still bareheaded. Again he
was faces with a rejecting hand. This time he reappeared, rubbing his eyes
fiercely, a shiny white kippa on his head of the kind visitors borrow to
declare themselves, in peaked polish, as visitors. He sat beside his brother,
wiping tears from his eyes and struggling to get over his father’s repudiation
of himself. Joav, too, put his hand over his eyes. I understand it. The
difficulty of rejecting your son for a moment and yet the importance of
retaining identity and practice in the face of a foreign society. He told his
son, with the fierceness of his gestures, that to be part of this community,
you must follow its rules. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That night we ate at Claud’s, the Moroccan artist who’d fled
to Israel and fallen in love with a Norwegian there. The food was fascinating
spicy Moroccan fare, and we stayed until midnight cracking sunflower seeds between
our teeth. Shabbat morning I was in shul early, waving to Sarah, the security
guard, as I skipped upstairs to my spot in the women’s section. We ate lunch at
Tuna and Eli. Again, a Sefardi guy who’d married a Norwegian. Tuna is from
Finnmark, and cooks lavish, delectable meals because of it. She’s also the
community caterer. I took single bites of half the dishes and felt as though
I’d gorged myself on gourmet goodness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgdUrWiPlG2MmiBKXSNHz6BZ2T77za_7kaPXoCAzWwLZUBzrvH_XTkv7Lpjc3sJfqk_YaeiGKlc_gNpWHMRyzgiPyD65C_fjR7W9OVHXuS3favFGBbKWhIT7RPcuuXO3OWgMKgd9wdNU/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgdUrWiPlG2MmiBKXSNHz6BZ2T77za_7kaPXoCAzWwLZUBzrvH_XTkv7Lpjc3sJfqk_YaeiGKlc_gNpWHMRyzgiPyD65C_fjR7W9OVHXuS3favFGBbKWhIT7RPcuuXO3OWgMKgd9wdNU/s400/Copenhagen+2012+032.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite things about statues of horses: they <br />
always look so completely stupid from the back</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We had the 20-30’s aged group over for seudah shlishit. A
fun crew of Norwegians, Israelis, and one other American. Joav gave a shiur on
the haftorah which made me bristle. All those comparisons of Bnei Yisrael to
whores bring to mind the Norwegian writers Ibsen and Skram and Collett. Take
the analogy through to its end and God becomes exposed as an abusive husband. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After mincha, at around 11, about twenty members of the
community gathered in the Kiddush hall for Joav’s Shavuot shiur. It was still
Shabbat, but since Shavuot wouldn’t come in until nearly 1 am, we started the
learning early. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Joav posed the most basic question: should the Torah change,
or stay as much the same as possible? Avi jumped in with support for
unchanging, and as the table swallowed it in Norwegian silence, I responded. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwWZ_69-U77Z6ZP2YCs48RkQa_jbXDJdA_g2a5JYw22HbV3znIsDvm5W567xGt8PPk_aWLJC8my3-VCv4VLAkkpBeurWBZmhLwY8TlXUPrv3lASDpnE2qEjxQPgneB7evQ1IVwGzkobE/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwWZ_69-U77Z6ZP2YCs48RkQa_jbXDJdA_g2a5JYw22HbV3znIsDvm5W567xGt8PPk_aWLJC8my3-VCv4VLAkkpBeurWBZmhLwY8TlXUPrv3lASDpnE2qEjxQPgneB7evQ1IVwGzkobE/s320/Copenhagen+2012+038.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dragon landing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">לא בשמים היא! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Problem solved. The second it was given to the Jews it began to change, by
force of interpretation, and human vitality. Whatever remains static is dead.
Torah is alive, interacting with humanity. I kept myself from quoting Bakhtin
in time and let Michael, the Danish gabbai, and the so-very-Israeli chazzan
Reuven bash it out in an epic exchange of preconceived notions. We reached home
just as the sunset turned into sunrise, the moment in between lost in some
other sphere.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiT_aWGsHM-Cj7oGBVTfSqwqwbZ9lVm4DETCAq3N8YnhqN_7f0iHdxs_MxUYON1HU5VOlUn5oD35QCvk8qoX-CC6FokTYvbhpJ9ZO27YEjL57yf0YAufXOaGgNTeAW6ZHi0g3x3jjzV1U/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiT_aWGsHM-Cj7oGBVTfSqwqwbZ9lVm4DETCAq3N8YnhqN_7f0iHdxs_MxUYON1HU5VOlUn5oD35QCvk8qoX-CC6FokTYvbhpJ9ZO27YEjL57yf0YAufXOaGgNTeAW6ZHi0g3x3jjzV1U/s320/Copenhagen+2012+078.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think they were locked out. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Lunch the next day was for the Bnei Akiva high school madrichim. I enjoyed
the culture clash where Racheli whined that the madrichim lacked
responsibility, and the madrichim sullenly responded. Ah, how little Israelis
know of Judaism outside Israel. At dinner at Joav and Liat’s, it was proven
again. After discussing the current scandal of the Stockholm rabbi and how his
converts will probably be invalidated, we surged into a discussion of
Conservative and Reform Judaism. Reuven once again left me feeling hopeless.
Joav’s responses heartened me, as he’s more aware of the nuances of reality. I
was less able to argue than I wanted. Five meals in Hebrew had left my brain
stuttering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The next morning I awoke early to wander though the cemetery and stop at
Ibsen, Wergeland, and Collet’s graves. I couldn’t find Munch, and just as I was
about to give up, noticed his bust. No words but his name, and in whiteout,
someone had written, “sometimes there are never words.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqanAQDfOco_KhnsZd4r5P4w1sH6SQyFC1mCaTFKWsIoE4cSIHEl56cKdcrsTWVAmZaCxphdRp3PmOwuqf2SZ5_uleVhEZuah1RUgXVirJHEp5FX70IWMFm6JGpy2CcC73H0IA2GBvlU/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqanAQDfOco_KhnsZd4r5P4w1sH6SQyFC1mCaTFKWsIoE4cSIHEl56cKdcrsTWVAmZaCxphdRp3PmOwuqf2SZ5_uleVhEZuah1RUgXVirJHEp5FX70IWMFm6JGpy2CcC73H0IA2GBvlU/s320/Copenhagen+2012+080.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The shul read Megillat Ruth that morning, and as always I got chills from
the loyalty of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">עמך עמי. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We ate lunch at Michael’s, the gabbai’s, with the whole chamullah (rabbi,
chazzan, and shlichim), and I blew Reuven’s mind telling him about uni in the
States. After a long nap I made American pancakes for everyone, frying while
subject to an intense interrogation from the Melchior’s youngest which quickly
devolved into a mindless ככה–למה fest about why the pancakes were so fat.
After mincha a group of us walked down to Akker Brygge. We ended the chag
around Joav and Liat’s kitchen table, dragging out a game of poker until 1:12
am when we could finally say havdalah. It was hard to say goodbye to Inbar and
Racheli the next day, and I climbed onto my train with a sadness that only
seven hours of Norwegian mountain splendor could cure. This country is
magnificent, you know that? And Bergen most charming of all. More graceful than
Oslo, quainter than Copenhagen, lusher than Stockholm… jeg er stolt å bor i Bergen.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdurAtpzUT9dG7IWrYAfoIP5zi9TeGncU-OQKgSXDLWcPQCQxmhKuS-Ln3Up7Gh9ZFGaJq8QoIIFiDvCckx0GCzD7rzKD1Hf9EERhV5CGzyoejp68oaeCSlOn5zWqfR7twocSOw6CQ0Q/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdurAtpzUT9dG7IWrYAfoIP5zi9TeGncU-OQKgSXDLWcPQCQxmhKuS-Ln3Up7Gh9ZFGaJq8QoIIFiDvCckx0GCzD7rzKD1Hf9EERhV5CGzyoejp68oaeCSlOn5zWqfR7twocSOw6CQ0Q/s320/Copenhagen+2012+034.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thinking Man on Pole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqF4jT8iDSI0l8J4KothDeKp9YgN5YEcguu4HAWVRy47OhuCP8N3jd8alWWrv23nPgMMQCt7n3WorzWeCLkJ6yDeLcxWWlW8MLjxg4mmzE_RMNjNhsRjxhbgqhGgN_1VzjERLT6fE-g4/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWqF4jT8iDSI0l8J4KothDeKp9YgN5YEcguu4HAWVRy47OhuCP8N3jd8alWWrv23nPgMMQCt7n3WorzWeCLkJ6yDeLcxWWlW8MLjxg4mmzE_RMNjNhsRjxhbgqhGgN_1VzjERLT6fE-g4/s320/Copenhagen+2012+035.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balanced Peace</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaj54cPQboqD0UJzGiLNNulggvwadu7351mj2O2DbpTC8Svyx8OTPenuAmI01K0Y7VtKlimabbtzbBFp2rH7JB0n9bHGLSS3t3PrrW2qipDDcztEOpCSsBV4fn-fdaTzEg71LWBnoHkt8/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDKxjPiadeMCV3PYptZDFtyjenhSoAfEw0HfHbzLj79NMPjE-aaVE9EiHMldYdTCBc7nABvpoTcWWDEv9TYGpj5ZODRDfsRT5zIA4A1yXFL6P9krTGTpQSQ2Wn9ODOxqfqcBhTT1QXgg/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDKxjPiadeMCV3PYptZDFtyjenhSoAfEw0HfHbzLj79NMPjE-aaVE9EiHMldYdTCBc7nABvpoTcWWDEv9TYGpj5ZODRDfsRT5zIA4A1yXFL6P9krTGTpQSQ2Wn9ODOxqfqcBhTT1QXgg/s320/Copenhagen+2012+041.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkvVXsACqM6_80LIfE09WhOF0yGP16Ek7lGvHEuR-PnPDSzh3PDCib4EdnGY3uPXrrgcZlDn9az5b4N2Mo83nUfWRgmq7G5VI0Pw_sdpEwnYc-HKe_Kfdq7G4lS7_kD_R-JTeA7CxGlU/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkvVXsACqM6_80LIfE09WhOF0yGP16Ek7lGvHEuR-PnPDSzh3PDCib4EdnGY3uPXrrgcZlDn9az5b4N2Mo83nUfWRgmq7G5VI0Pw_sdpEwnYc-HKe_Kfdq7G4lS7_kD_R-JTeA7CxGlU/s320/Copenhagen+2012+058.jpg" width="239" /></a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy a tilt, anyone?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bNT5DPfW1tXnMCToWmu01Kc7ahhYsHgIRheMNnbulqGwGAy-p67hdclkbfZU5JOzMLqEeTa7UbozGJdL2_QhJ7DKZ2z66gpnh5txP4zuXPIOD95Og2G5ltHoq_IXRV-ysWzbY3qtAHU/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bNT5DPfW1tXnMCToWmu01Kc7ahhYsHgIRheMNnbulqGwGAy-p67hdclkbfZU5JOzMLqEeTa7UbozGJdL2_QhJ7DKZ2z66gpnh5txP4zuXPIOD95Og2G5ltHoq_IXRV-ysWzbY3qtAHU/s640/Copenhagen+2012+059.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty much all that life's about</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwSv0-b0GgTpEmWh1DY5N7meYIeTGO3M9ULQ19MAUivYslnBrQp_c6DDWOmLLO9YhuXkbwTCXNv_w8xYJKBHfbEHyOUSx5L1SyxKXX1OpqDqa-x2F-vvdLHSJawjIGNIEcbA2SXK8gZk/s1600/Copenhagen+2012+070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwSv0-b0GgTpEmWh1DY5N7meYIeTGO3M9ULQ19MAUivYslnBrQp_c6DDWOmLLO9YhuXkbwTCXNv_w8xYJKBHfbEHyOUSx5L1SyxKXX1OpqDqa-x2F-vvdLHSJawjIGNIEcbA2SXK8gZk/s640/Copenhagen+2012+070.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaj54cPQboqD0UJzGiLNNulggvwadu7351mj2O2DbpTC8Svyx8OTPenuAmI01K0Y7VtKlimabbtzbBFp2rH7JB0n9bHGLSS3t3PrrW2qipDDcztEOpCSsBV4fn-fdaTzEg71LWBnoHkt8/s640/Copenhagen+2012+074.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="476" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HC Anderson and me</td></tr>
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<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-62794290075064273552012-05-21T14:32:00.001+02:002012-05-21T14:32:59.852+02:0017 Mai: Tradition in Tights<br />
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Syttende Mai, or the 17<sup>th</sup> of May, has been
Norway’s Constitution Day since 1814 when Norway declared independence. From
Sweden? Denmark? Unimportant. The three biggest celebrations in the world are
held in Oslo, Bergen, and Seattle. But Bergen is the best. We have the buecorps,
and the best bunad, and a toget that is so much longer than the city itself it
actually cuts itself off in parts and little drummer boys must alternate
crossing with Norwegian war veterans. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I began my 17 Mai celebrations early. Rachel and I both had
guests, me a Swede I met while living in Israel, she a Brit she met while
living in Thailand, so the conversation cross-referenced Israel, Thailand, and
Norway quite frequently. Yael came in from Stockholm Wednesday afternoon and
Rachel and Mim came over for some good old-fashioned American brinner. Nothing
like fat pancakes, waffles, and vodka for dinner (okay, so it was an
American-Norwegian breakfast). Mim’s Newcastle dialect challenged my lexicon
and drove Yael crazy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We went out to Sjøbodn for some 16<sup>th</sup> Mai joy.
Sjøbodn’s so much fun because it’s in the warehouse bottom of one of the old
buildings on the Bryggen, and is less poshy than other Bergen hotspots. The
tables are barrels with wooden crates on top, the décor is of the Hanseatic
variety, and the music is live and fairly smooth, albeit unchangingly American.
We loaded up on Hansa and settled near the guitarist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Apparently we looked like easy prey. A Norwegian man with a
full load (haha! Get the pun, Norwegian readers?) sat down at the table next to
us, and after a bit of work, made himself part of the conversation. His breath
reeked (halitosis is a venal sin, in my estimation) and his conversation
remained mostly basic as he was too drunk to really speak English well. He
pulled over a guy selling roses and gave us each a rose, since it was our
“first 17<sup>th</sup>”. He gave Rachel a drink, and then went to the bar and
came back with a plate of fifteen shots. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re not drunk enough,” he said. “Have a shot.” Not drunk
enough to find you attractive? Not even fifteen drinks would help, buddy.
Rachel went for a shot anyways. Disgusted with his smell and obvious
intentions, I switched seats with Mim and let her and Rachel butter the guy up
so that they could get more drinks out of him. They’re from New Jersey and
Newcastle respectively, and I found myself wondering whether being from the
self-acclaimed trashiest part of each country as they are has inured them to
the nastiness of bar pick-ups. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, Kyle and Mark came in, sopping wet, and with a
little adroit angling of chairs we managed to get our buddy Thomas to move on
to a girl in the corner, where he seemed to be making better progress. Mark
joked to Rachel that “that could have been you!” as the singer moved into his
second rendition of ‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ Sometimes I really miss American humor.
Eventually we moved on to Café Opera, not neglecting to take our roses with us,
and returned to Fantoft late late late (but it still wasn’t dark out, of
course. Or at least, not night-dark, just rain-cloud dark) on a bybanen filled
with drunk russe. At the first stop, a pair of policeman got on and paced
through the aisle. At the second, they disembarked and a different pair got on.
We counted four sets of policemen on the bybanen that night. It made me feel
very, very safe. And filled me with trepidation for the morrow. What were they
expecting to happen?<o:p></o:p></div>
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17 Mai dawned bright (the raindrops were backlit with a
pearly cloud light that seems all the eerier since you can’t tell what the
light source is) and early (around 4 am). Yael and I were invited to Sigrun,
one of the English teachers I work with at Katten, for a traditional 17 Mai
breakfast. As we arrived, people in bunad carrying trays of food and umbrellas
filled the streets around us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bunad, or the traditional Norwegian dress, was probably the
coolest part of this day. Bergen looked as though dolls from the folk museums
had suddenly sprung to life and emerged to walk the streets. Everyone except
the tourists were wearing it. I felt transported back to the fifteenth century,
and suddenly realized how anachronistic modern dress appears against the wooden
houses and cobblestone streets of Bergen. The bunad police (an amorphous group
referenced throughout the day) strictly forbid the wearing of sunglasses or too
much makeup, but they can’t change the incongruity of a woman in apron and
bonnet buying a bybanen ticket, or a man in breeches and stockings texting on
his phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The very aura of the day was charged because of the
clothing. Watching a woman flounce down the street in her full skirt, I got the
feeling she felt as I do when I’m tricked out in yom tov finery. The bunad made
the day more than a 4<sup>th</sup> of July barbecue, into a festive and at the
same time slightly solemn day. Nobody was going to act stupid while wearing
40,000 kroner clothes. Oh, did I mention? Bunad cost quite a bundle. The
embroidery is all hand sewn, and silver and gold doodads hang all over it, and
only certain women have the technique. Most girls get them at the time of their
confirmation and wear them their whole life. Different regions in Norway have different bunad, so most of people's conversation on this day revolve around, "oh, and where is yours from?" It's a wonderful expression of patriotism that Norwegians normally don't allow themselves. </div>
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Sigrun was in bunad, as was Ødin, her adorable two-year-old
son, who stared at me with mouth wide open whenever I said anything in
Norwegian, no matter how much Sigrun and Erland assured me I had it right.
Erland, her husband, had opted out—less Norwegian men than women own bunad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0qbAXFFbfuxv9JQ_dqhUo13y-1sC22kfG8-oqATRnahHrAo2_Oi1eiaC53g8Iye2HquCUlMxVt3gOnBMJs-2KGGKqMC9hMTHVHGZNrRXsh6J3s3_Yr6cm57oeeJRDcOr4WmFK_Bnjqs/s1600/100_3287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0qbAXFFbfuxv9JQ_dqhUo13y-1sC22kfG8-oqATRnahHrAo2_Oi1eiaC53g8Iye2HquCUlMxVt3gOnBMJs-2KGGKqMC9hMTHVHGZNrRXsh6J3s3_Yr6cm57oeeJRDcOr4WmFK_Bnjqs/s400/100_3287.JPG" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sigrun and Ødin </td></tr>
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Traditional Norwegian breakfasts are delicious, and luckily
overlap with kashrut in quite a large way. We had thick slices of bread
slathered with strawberry jam, brunøst, and rokt laks (not all on the same
piece), along with fresh fruit that most definitely was not in season in Norway
in 1814. Yael’s Swedish is close enough to Norwegian that we could converse
quite comfortably, especially since weirdly, Stockholm Swedish sounds more like
Bergensk than Bokmål. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Around 10 we began to move towards the city, and crammed
onto a bybanen so packed that I could not turn my head straight but held it
stifled against an enormous Norwegian man’s jacket, praying that he wouldn’t
move his elbow, for fear my nose would be history. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The bysentrum was crowded with tourists, Bergenser,
balloons, flags, and booths selling hot dogs and umbrellas. We walked along the
pond in the center towards the festplassen and became aware of the sound of
drums. Boys in uniform were marching along beside us. We’d found one of the
feeder routes to the parade, and were accidentally walking with it. I was
reminded of one of my old roommate’s favorite comedians who said something
about how, if you get tired of a parade, you can just walk in the opposite
direction and it will fast forward. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We finally secured spots along the rail at the corner of
Olav Kyrres gate and Starvhusgaten. For the first half we watched the parade
between gaps in umbrellas. Then the weather began to improve and we snagged
slightly better viewing spots. Bergen presented an impressive pageant. Everyone
was there: the fire department, old veterans, little boys drumming, whole
swathes of colorful townsfolk in bunad, the rektor of the university in his
velvet cloak, and an impressive array of russ. Ah, I thought, here is Norwegian pride. Hidden all year long only to erupt fantastically at the start of spring. Worth it.<br />
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I was just as interested in
snapping pictures of the crowd as of the parade. Everyone had dressed up. It
really bothered me to see women in aprons and buckle shoes and embroidered
corsets bent over their phones and texting, or holding hot dogs and umbrellas
with logos for the Body Shop. But it was also a delightful sign of the march of
time and progress (are hot dogs progress?) and of how a modern society could
still remember the old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yael and I watched the people for hours, stopping for a
brief picnic of knekkebrød, Norsk agurk, and cheese before returning to the
melee. Fulbrighter flautist Sarah played with the Bergen band in the pagoda in
the city center, and we listened to most of the concert before drifting off to
watch the crowd hop from booth to booth of games. We returned to Fantoft in
time for some serious naps, solid soup and hot chocolate for dinner, and a good
deal of talk about the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Friday alternated clouds with sun. We hiked lazily up Landåsfjellet
and picnicked at the top, returning to the bottom in time to buy groceries and
cook for Shabbat. Thea came for lunch, bringing strawberries, and that with
Yael’s Swedish chocolate gave us the best dessert ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sunday was one of the nicest days I’ve seen yet. After a
morning run, Yael and I went into the city. We watched the Bergen band play,
picnicked by the center pond, walked up Fløyen, and bought ourselves Softis.
Ice cream popped up everywhere. There were more hands with cones than empty. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Inbar, the Oslo Bnei Akiva shlicha, had called to let me
know she was coming into the city with two friends. The five of us bussed down
to Haukeland Skole to teach cheider and give the boys some Yom Yerushalayim
cheer. I have to say it was absolutely deliciously delightful to be the one
with the best handle on language—I could speak Hebrew with the Israelis,
explain things to the boys in Norwegian as the need arouse (Rosh Hamemshaleh?
Statsminister! Knesset? Stortinget!), and most definitely had the best English
in the crowd. Linguistic ability is the most basic of all human skills in
providing access to other people. What joy to have it in spades (in the right
surroundings, of course. I’d be rather lost in France). <o:p></o:p></div>
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We left cheider, where my boys had read up on different
battles of the Six Day War and had to brag to their friends about which they
had fought in, and then participated in a trivia quiz by the Israelis, for
home. It was so serene out, so peacefully blue and smelled so deliciously
sunwarmed, that we walked down to Gamlehaugen for a sit by the king’s tulips
and daffodils. We watched the gulls swoop in designs over the fjord. It was 9
pm by the time we realized it was evening. The sun was still arced high in the
sky. Our shadows stubby in front of us, we wended our way home and pretended it
was evening and time for dinner. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tonight I go to Copenhagen with Amanda, and then Oslo for Shavuot.
I won’t return to Bergen for a week, which is horrible when I remember that I
have less than a month left. Don’t expect pictures from Copenhagen—my camera
broke right after 17 Mai. Which seems fitting. While in Norway I have broken my
kindle, laptop, camera, glasses, retainer, hiking boots, and snow boots. The
gods of small things hate me. Still, it’s that much less to carry home! <o:p></o:p><br />
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Enjoy the pictures!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuLbnglvZCOdXB_mIsftegLgKVgRpJxCQ4oolI8DC6YZ7k8eeAsfwHuA4-L8cOposjsaS7reEI7ad8jCSnCJil7r5Q_dN9D6KNn6Atwr3hWXQ3cORLs4lXM2NXdKTRoZXuBzlLkNsmZs/s1600/100_3295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuLbnglvZCOdXB_mIsftegLgKVgRpJxCQ4oolI8DC6YZ7k8eeAsfwHuA4-L8cOposjsaS7reEI7ad8jCSnCJil7r5Q_dN9D6KNn6Atwr3hWXQ3cORLs4lXM2NXdKTRoZXuBzlLkNsmZs/s640/100_3295.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The start of the parade</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What are you looking at?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russ on the prowl</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adorable!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0MCUh178evvt30GV04yBALwuKWgZEKmIlXZGidskxWvrNEDWU7gqyx18kdgMX6Vok44NuwOE9g173AwFBiWrGvG23LpyljI8NL7PhxYBWBn3qj-ovZWtaSuSwoGfJtuhcwpITc5sMdY/s1600/100_3551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0MCUh178evvt30GV04yBALwuKWgZEKmIlXZGidskxWvrNEDWU7gqyx18kdgMX6Vok44NuwOE9g173AwFBiWrGvG23LpyljI8NL7PhxYBWBn3qj-ovZWtaSuSwoGfJtuhcwpITc5sMdY/s320/100_3551.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How to make a phone fit with bunad: Norwegian flag</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjct3vxbtF3INWSjgpOPxe47dn190TS269RIJUvxS8OiERpusPuy5JTD_XcW_STOnuSRMn39Ujra8Sq6gNG6YY9XtE9HVdYUakJAc5-XhVK4QGuIW4qA5N6LqpX3Y6etabp_pNFX2dsHDU/s1600/100_3377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjct3vxbtF3INWSjgpOPxe47dn190TS269RIJUvxS8OiERpusPuy5JTD_XcW_STOnuSRMn39Ujra8Sq6gNG6YY9XtE9HVdYUakJAc5-XhVK4QGuIW4qA5N6LqpX3Y6etabp_pNFX2dsHDU/s640/100_3377.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The end of the parade</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jZVDhLwjKzJdE6wc5bwvOAMVitmyEAczrixJUr1RjAGGyXQoMhHoyUlAtojfa5bM0dg1QihjJ4iz3XTHRurZ3JiviEl3S5iKiy6zh3tlF2PGphJfgeVdBKeA7pYbQ0bUXOnoLPHIB9U/s1600/100_3383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jZVDhLwjKzJdE6wc5bwvOAMVitmyEAczrixJUr1RjAGGyXQoMhHoyUlAtojfa5bM0dg1QihjJ4iz3XTHRurZ3JiviEl3S5iKiy6zh3tlF2PGphJfgeVdBKeA7pYbQ0bUXOnoLPHIB9U/s320/100_3383.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhza6hLNLXxAxRAHfnG3ZiO2iFkVLIPZoTUZt5n9RrsInFk3lyc4OlVFaGo9lXRY-rc-92i-E0E0dfl1-_anmATzFs9Q1_k8S3d1A9EjUSgQm6ImE3D_OZ9mUf_aRGEKNHiwCLVZG65-Bw/s1600/100_3387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhza6hLNLXxAxRAHfnG3ZiO2iFkVLIPZoTUZt5n9RrsInFk3lyc4OlVFaGo9lXRY-rc-92i-E0E0dfl1-_anmATzFs9Q1_k8S3d1A9EjUSgQm6ImE3D_OZ9mUf_aRGEKNHiwCLVZG65-Bw/s320/100_3387.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who says Norwegians aren't military?</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFz9D6GLxQvZQ2TR6ZVG-_D-IsvVOA28-3VrcGga4RdjbhW94JNHYmu1YKPnIdNDBKCtNd6BxOyaIoswl8CehqU23QeR0d1pvWySu_l5Lz7dGfOghkp1JuCELLtRkVfrsByAE_YYBHnw/s1600/100_3389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFz9D6GLxQvZQ2TR6ZVG-_D-IsvVOA28-3VrcGga4RdjbhW94JNHYmu1YKPnIdNDBKCtNd6BxOyaIoswl8CehqU23QeR0d1pvWySu_l5Lz7dGfOghkp1JuCELLtRkVfrsByAE_YYBHnw/s640/100_3389.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYY7Ss_v6YQUneskII_l1buNTKvcdzl1AaGdeQgKzZxKcIud6nGwPMMpbOBmGbpGGBWwugX4a0ie7EUcmIxpicCiExhoyVToE9cMFqHeRxgjJHhwCAJ0wPEOJ3CoDlAJCcqKaS93tY7ok/s1600/100_3412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYY7Ss_v6YQUneskII_l1buNTKvcdzl1AaGdeQgKzZxKcIud6nGwPMMpbOBmGbpGGBWwugX4a0ie7EUcmIxpicCiExhoyVToE9cMFqHeRxgjJHhwCAJ0wPEOJ3CoDlAJCcqKaS93tY7ok/s320/100_3412.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's us! UiB!</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHxBYGK75NoWzyUqkF9JzopuT5z737r6yziMZf0jI4mFHgwJuoQO-XxTiwF9tHrFZs4IOQHxY6A3AmZ8CuP0r_J9UPqKFSD5PFag7y-lIGVEIRB1knSClfW1UAJyFr6nepPy3iOZwOPpA/s1600/100_3420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHxBYGK75NoWzyUqkF9JzopuT5z737r6yziMZf0jI4mFHgwJuoQO-XxTiwF9tHrFZs4IOQHxY6A3AmZ8CuP0r_J9UPqKFSD5PFag7y-lIGVEIRB1knSClfW1UAJyFr6nepPy3iOZwOPpA/s320/100_3420.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Biker offers beer to the cops</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcSr5hwepWgKvSk4FSQecks5BiDvsQMzfNi2gVH9e7V-i3agf14jFw7D_TFBD7nX0NsJQVEr2uOkzWCj0mTW0vYxdrjdjZ0zDS1BfGLLnWeMNZO2SqcXTm_b2gw-v-X93vz8iavGks6g/s1600/100_3428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcSr5hwepWgKvSk4FSQecks5BiDvsQMzfNi2gVH9e7V-i3agf14jFw7D_TFBD7nX0NsJQVEr2uOkzWCj0mTW0vYxdrjdjZ0zDS1BfGLLnWeMNZO2SqcXTm_b2gw-v-X93vz8iavGks6g/s320/100_3428.JPG" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Norwegian Language and Literature</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNpVg4AEGxYDC6wGrMYf_nWHX0sRR-KsBDem77qsG4zsDlEfdj5LxP-d1soONd25KLINfrxhzGknKacLt-RHVGQDsSzkOHlVSjY-2CpjZeeUMY1mTHQof4Xq3xLXxSGlekA_W5zdV5F0/s1600/100_3434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNpVg4AEGxYDC6wGrMYf_nWHX0sRR-KsBDem77qsG4zsDlEfdj5LxP-d1soONd25KLINfrxhzGknKacLt-RHVGQDsSzkOHlVSjY-2CpjZeeUMY1mTHQof4Xq3xLXxSGlekA_W5zdV5F0/s320/100_3434.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the parade</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sUq9eOoAFt3trBy3jdvgmoXZjg1nlteocTdP4yws_pRiXiqN97WcXJRUDDSWzYBoD7eEZVU3gZsAN5rtEQGrxl1t6zHzcAthVwuP8zl1LKZ0I_Fq8E_Htkck18_NRpU2N_jhnUtdV6Y/s1600/100_3441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sUq9eOoAFt3trBy3jdvgmoXZjg1nlteocTdP4yws_pRiXiqN97WcXJRUDDSWzYBoD7eEZVU3gZsAN5rtEQGrxl1t6zHzcAthVwuP8zl1LKZ0I_Fq8E_Htkck18_NRpU2N_jhnUtdV6Y/s320/100_3441.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The German Office</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbS4g75XW-LSljKAYKmaklE_zA3gTXinYxioUW43eXs52OwZYB1gvhXZeVdFN7pOl0ql5NzFdemhW0RX2XHc40mduUYG6lbiqjNGE8XDWfRKPkCInIxUd0yvPihRKNZFF6pRXhv69PwE/s1600/100_3437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbS4g75XW-LSljKAYKmaklE_zA3gTXinYxioUW43eXs52OwZYB1gvhXZeVdFN7pOl0ql5NzFdemhW0RX2XHc40mduUYG6lbiqjNGE8XDWfRKPkCInIxUd0yvPihRKNZFF6pRXhv69PwE/s320/100_3437.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Scottish office?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUa-UtGOts8no5_xt6-EYSeVkNRYvNcXAEUUUN8FqH_zHGF86oKSCwEQXECe7pvGe5SKs6AgWC7451OF735iAVSacaHDQqIBxGylvE86n_ceIbWYYSGMp1LasqPYqj1-v7Rn5Ozmk7uM/s1600/100_3452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUa-UtGOts8no5_xt6-EYSeVkNRYvNcXAEUUUN8FqH_zHGF86oKSCwEQXECe7pvGe5SKs6AgWC7451OF735iAVSacaHDQqIBxGylvE86n_ceIbWYYSGMp1LasqPYqj1-v7Rn5Ozmk7uM/s640/100_3452.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We are Russ and so can you</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdCRkWkktwDmc3aMpVNz7TRz57Dm24TRJkYaYWLVePLwo3FWkWP0hoHtJrPAr0R12mlMpF7rk3dm3c1bm-NJ5ECWLrTPwROhwuVHbb5toKynUrbHJhd35MZonypf6LFpySOce7kQudDgs/s1600/100_3492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdCRkWkktwDmc3aMpVNz7TRz57Dm24TRJkYaYWLVePLwo3FWkWP0hoHtJrPAr0R12mlMpF7rk3dm3c1bm-NJ5ECWLrTPwROhwuVHbb5toKynUrbHJhd35MZonypf6LFpySOce7kQudDgs/s320/100_3492.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tap dancers dancing to 'Singing in the Rain.' Just right for Bergen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaX-MYzpyHeooydCqNB_HQdHjTbJ1zq2oqg3DggxwbG51k0h2ACq2d9KpCHACQAwBv_Tun7v2l2REEyqGUyrsHsLsus26QpQ9-oo0ojeBhmCS5s9fCdk1dQr1YiSMey41TIqcQb9vkgfc/s1600/100_3493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaX-MYzpyHeooydCqNB_HQdHjTbJ1zq2oqg3DggxwbG51k0h2ACq2d9KpCHACQAwBv_Tun7v2l2REEyqGUyrsHsLsus26QpQ9-oo0ojeBhmCS5s9fCdk1dQr1YiSMey41TIqcQb9vkgfc/s400/100_3493.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tap dancers on cobblestones</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rmSTey3sxCiR99kXLr5P970xtjVsMxLnAUmhi7FiqyAo9hiQKD_7NOPRknGWhyphenhyphenjFCaPstS9aTnQ67EHEHQ5kXeFUxhdHMQStZbzyRkby7ujlvWVz-lhgfXbp0sIdMv-dz4-_pEzw0yU/s1600/100_3474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rmSTey3sxCiR99kXLr5P970xtjVsMxLnAUmhi7FiqyAo9hiQKD_7NOPRknGWhyphenhyphenjFCaPstS9aTnQ67EHEHQ5kXeFUxhdHMQStZbzyRkby7ujlvWVz-lhgfXbp0sIdMv-dz4-_pEzw0yU/s320/100_3474.JPG" width="240" /></a> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilAKwQ0xO4fgnGyrWJO_vELRhIA9hLjEfBM3FMHK-eDLcBDPbgRLi1aPoKHvIeoeqrdRenT_ip1mFsIU7b-xDGWcZ8h0RGQSt64XJyN4DuCA8SgTwsY22t4PMPZH3EO0ZULoOKwaIvzE/s1600/100_3494.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhilAKwQ0xO4fgnGyrWJO_vELRhIA9hLjEfBM3FMHK-eDLcBDPbgRLi1aPoKHvIeoeqrdRenT_ip1mFsIU7b-xDGWcZ8h0RGQSt64XJyN4DuCA8SgTwsY22t4PMPZH3EO0ZULoOKwaIvzE/s320/100_3494.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step in. Step up.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao6DY-dns-v_5INiTg-baJ8pJQEsr5RKS3283o9XpE0xYnCsX-9MjyjqyLU_vrdFxr-NqjH-8VVB9BDcvg4yGkdEgHbTP9SlZP_B27WYE_nTSrDoKMuvODYnATOdepVmPMoEiRA8hvJs/s1600/100_3450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao6DY-dns-v_5INiTg-baJ8pJQEsr5RKS3283o9XpE0xYnCsX-9MjyjqyLU_vrdFxr-NqjH-8VVB9BDcvg4yGkdEgHbTP9SlZP_B27WYE_nTSrDoKMuvODYnATOdepVmPMoEiRA8hvJs/s640/100_3450.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunad on the march</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyojXSgWOWH3ZExKFGaHFIQ1yIsNYOzTKM80n2lbvB51OXxQY0o5-OSJMKBiwpLYuJVTdRij6MhNnoHP6XoDeSjtuTmK7vNQtHewYKDZ02YG_YetVEnghQxxbtzUuFiJAUMbv2u_eIkbw/s1600/100_3418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyojXSgWOWH3ZExKFGaHFIQ1yIsNYOzTKM80n2lbvB51OXxQY0o5-OSJMKBiwpLYuJVTdRij6MhNnoHP6XoDeSjtuTmK7vNQtHewYKDZ02YG_YetVEnghQxxbtzUuFiJAUMbv2u_eIkbw/s640/100_3418.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not sure.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLr_GdrJNZkd4-2spWG_u_3cAWW8oXhbWlzsMfJRE2UAiTmWUvWUV6Zk2CtO6LQFRNO_7Uczm7JkEoi_S5CPzFlee5vWrPlkTiwb0Z-EGPooZUQR2VCS8XhvTqMNpPr8VmMfLUN06yd4/s1600/100_3334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLr_GdrJNZkd4-2spWG_u_3cAWW8oXhbWlzsMfJRE2UAiTmWUvWUV6Zk2CtO6LQFRNO_7Uczm7JkEoi_S5CPzFlee5vWrPlkTiwb0Z-EGPooZUQR2VCS8XhvTqMNpPr8VmMfLUN06yd4/s320/100_3334.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of bands</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfAX0BNdTJbh4xAlAEgbpjEjWDJaPMgqhHBMQ9thczTr2d2re8ddWeQukgTxp7-mgwkuTd9O8rTSer54ksieNZSbr6PyAMpuW-wufp_yf6uEn3BiAdxp8bWJlKfcm6bW3JDCZrPBHFPg/s1600/100_3502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfAX0BNdTJbh4xAlAEgbpjEjWDJaPMgqhHBMQ9thczTr2d2re8ddWeQukgTxp7-mgwkuTd9O8rTSer54ksieNZSbr6PyAMpuW-wufp_yf6uEn3BiAdxp8bWJlKfcm6bW3JDCZrPBHFPg/s320/100_3502.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russ convention</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMldLDUbFPcazli2F7SCh2i54hAc-3ZDOjj_g-yn5KTlFHshra9jOhx36rM8QCxpc24tDaStJz6YzPbdgCJ4cbuG07NdnsQEB0oAfTjhleExY3guhg5sJHo_rPd9zYgjK70UxPpSxMPpU/s1600/100_3504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMldLDUbFPcazli2F7SCh2i54hAc-3ZDOjj_g-yn5KTlFHshra9jOhx36rM8QCxpc24tDaStJz6YzPbdgCJ4cbuG07NdnsQEB0oAfTjhleExY3guhg5sJHo_rPd9zYgjK70UxPpSxMPpU/s320/100_3504.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decked-out stroller</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBRvcBLfXfmW5fFFyaDE9-0nDIDwwgS8hfDTPxsN_v7uwHgaEAfmO57gnm5h4uiFpbw_AVLXyjlhTo-eAuErWBdOAfH7OtRgbh9YIT7AWyMp7ud8MJNQZudgxKHFVtk9xuvvAJ_FhuFJQ/s1600/100_3515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBRvcBLfXfmW5fFFyaDE9-0nDIDwwgS8hfDTPxsN_v7uwHgaEAfmO57gnm5h4uiFpbw_AVLXyjlhTo-eAuErWBdOAfH7OtRgbh9YIT7AWyMp7ud8MJNQZudgxKHFVtk9xuvvAJ_FhuFJQ/s320/100_3515.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dog in bunad!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5NY0-kKQCJvbmik5pYynAO_7U7GueXtvQKKoc8_7BI8zuzMC2KUGemamXIvywpyVvMSMD3jx_3yGn9_WX5aNITggjfupuVVnd7HvdAFpmeGPIg18MpZsB8diehUCiYb3NpnS7cmg-Dc/s1600/100_3521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp5NY0-kKQCJvbmik5pYynAO_7U7GueXtvQKKoc8_7BI8zuzMC2KUGemamXIvywpyVvMSMD3jx_3yGn9_WX5aNITggjfupuVVnd7HvdAFpmeGPIg18MpZsB8diehUCiYb3NpnS7cmg-Dc/s320/100_3521.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vpOjuC3u8iYaJ3-Js8H3IR9M_eT0MGdKyYmKbo-KmiiZM05W9QzOMjLQWZDsrWPf0AhaQwwwuVP35a_sWjB4CgZCXG_bTpw-NacZ6sLTlXBFuN7yGgNNTGY4UJFX_DlEH3gHQbwS8iQ/s1600/100_3520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vpOjuC3u8iYaJ3-Js8H3IR9M_eT0MGdKyYmKbo-KmiiZM05W9QzOMjLQWZDsrWPf0AhaQwwwuVP35a_sWjB4CgZCXG_bTpw-NacZ6sLTlXBFuN7yGgNNTGY4UJFX_DlEH3gHQbwS8iQ/s400/100_3520.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More bunad!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq14MX8hpymgRo-vR455uLlRRn6WoVeh0EgyvKuXRxTN5wWTdSP7vsb3CVYaK4q1WwF3MWR9T9nbHAqZq1zjyg-xshYJ3B2ZO_D62wH7WgUtc9wt4wcgTwmvw7qVkH85HHOHkoA5HHbQ/s1600/100_3519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRq14MX8hpymgRo-vR455uLlRRn6WoVeh0EgyvKuXRxTN5wWTdSP7vsb3CVYaK4q1WwF3MWR9T9nbHAqZq1zjyg-xshYJ3B2ZO_D62wH7WgUtc9wt4wcgTwmvw7qVkH85HHOHkoA5HHbQ/s640/100_3519.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yet more bunad! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzArmcKo3iO8z7c4Bzf73by7698-nNaFr7_ZbK5Ca8faphtxSQI4Ld1jAdKULmpC5eNOa_Kf1m3m-IERQrYxLWdXMMjyaaUeaOkvfZpltePbdyJlw_9PNFxEfx4Jjhl-RS1mvV9Nrf9k/s1600/100_3534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzArmcKo3iO8z7c4Bzf73by7698-nNaFr7_ZbK5Ca8faphtxSQI4Ld1jAdKULmpC5eNOa_Kf1m3m-IERQrYxLWdXMMjyaaUeaOkvfZpltePbdyJlw_9PNFxEfx4Jjhl-RS1mvV9Nrf9k/s640/100_3534.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You get the idea<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXyXsl2vZ0sF-kHUay0vCLamtcB8EX8jIRWa8siTqEJVY2NZQITGAZk3vbv3pHrM03Vy0Ihfk1vrpCVBF5WaBZVM9OTuHMNqfqPm7Bf3k79brG2v3DsUGPy8O7E_C4WZzNI8zm-DPOGs/s1600/100_3523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJXyXsl2vZ0sF-kHUay0vCLamtcB8EX8jIRWa8siTqEJVY2NZQITGAZk3vbv3pHrM03Vy0Ihfk1vrpCVBF5WaBZVM9OTuHMNqfqPm7Bf3k79brG2v3DsUGPy8O7E_C4WZzNI8zm-DPOGs/s400/100_3523.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matching umbrella. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy-FPjo9ZPh6xxIDnETmAStWHwCLxC0c-1xZRp7n-TDKzX99DsE86bGU-XrEzDKOZpzUBAH6FGfDqEBHJP4AXI8sV-OZk7yrlDcySutKCgkHiKEkxpZyNOCS1U0m59YGeSJMVEIdrSqak/s1600/100_3531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy-FPjo9ZPh6xxIDnETmAStWHwCLxC0c-1xZRp7n-TDKzX99DsE86bGU-XrEzDKOZpzUBAH6FGfDqEBHJP4AXI8sV-OZk7yrlDcySutKCgkHiKEkxpZyNOCS1U0m59YGeSJMVEIdrSqak/s320/100_3531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah performing</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Y4qb13RLbDEaxtfxONftbZZyJ6b0CzyhlzZxpyqxM0kULCSym2qkQ35O-BYi8QqqWxLI15K55tjbNWH2nwfW1UHAKZye3iLqAcVtUD-rT-MSSIJG6eECw2fq91BZWF8KcngLCwTQXoE/s1600/100_3539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Y4qb13RLbDEaxtfxONftbZZyJ6b0CzyhlzZxpyqxM0kULCSym2qkQ35O-BYi8QqqWxLI15K55tjbNWH2nwfW1UHAKZye3iLqAcVtUD-rT-MSSIJG6eECw2fq91BZWF8KcngLCwTQXoE/s640/100_3539.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the cutest things I've ever seen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aeDDdZI50w6XQ1pezWYbTfciYjZVY2b8eVcQrDwWgtYt3wyfUD7NANwWbGysCYK12m4x15m8q5_-yZHjYLmE8q-kWT2qq_lnDqar83fP_GuBKnosu6YqWRnJznqgUn5vt3GgLsOm1zc/s1600/100_3545.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aeDDdZI50w6XQ1pezWYbTfciYjZVY2b8eVcQrDwWgtYt3wyfUD7NANwWbGysCYK12m4x15m8q5_-yZHjYLmE8q-kWT2qq_lnDqar83fP_GuBKnosu6YqWRnJznqgUn5vt3GgLsOm1zc/s640/100_3545.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm2O2tY2o8xKK_g2gXq4FRFglH8YnoUD_DNwZ8IfAPH8lBkydWvhkPxo5BvdZKc69Wqa7Qb35b4z2kURP9CFwx6_lTrVI_m0fv4nGpziYYR1iwC8jPdVZxKF15UCrtkzzpwj4u5UnhyE/s1600/100_3546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm2O2tY2o8xKK_g2gXq4FRFglH8YnoUD_DNwZ8IfAPH8lBkydWvhkPxo5BvdZKc69Wqa7Qb35b4z2kURP9CFwx6_lTrVI_m0fv4nGpziYYR1iwC8jPdVZxKF15UCrtkzzpwj4u5UnhyE/s640/100_3546.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bergensentrum</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpPcUqJFbXZiwcwGZKIMTs1ZyGGAzOe092PRzwudoRmC4bXfpGyD3heSuubxKmvEjAlAo0oiwvfOgkGfXShLzqmN_DYapASOZuBAtQYwVb_k3kYJFcevgSPAslaEuXpJObgW8v9CuCa0/s1600/100_3285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpPcUqJFbXZiwcwGZKIMTs1ZyGGAzOe092PRzwudoRmC4bXfpGyD3heSuubxKmvEjAlAo0oiwvfOgkGfXShLzqmN_DYapASOZuBAtQYwVb_k3kYJFcevgSPAslaEuXpJObgW8v9CuCa0/s640/100_3285.JPG" width="558" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading Home</td></tr>
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<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-24313486807923308512012-05-14T22:24:00.002+02:002013-10-30T03:04:05.178+01:00A (Wonderful) Day in the Life<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="NO-BOK" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: NO-BOK;">Today I:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYA2qCKVsQjElXF4fhgHQ4lmEpUKC95D2dV8iAM-hREU54klVMqAfYpDJWQdrCd0-QGXgui9ziR4bNT1mScDQ54fzVqGQ95DlhsQXYmR_2Xea8BVt66gmxuE9lgAlt-aPvXkhWv8qu5w/s1600/Spring+adventures+in+Norway+and+Sweden+2012+160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" dba="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYA2qCKVsQjElXF4fhgHQ4lmEpUKC95D2dV8iAM-hREU54klVMqAfYpDJWQdrCd0-QGXgui9ziR4bNT1mScDQ54fzVqGQ95DlhsQXYmR_2Xea8BVt66gmxuE9lgAlt-aPvXkhWv8qu5w/s400/Spring+adventures+in+Norway+and+Sweden+2012+160.JPG" width="298" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Cheri and I on the peak of Løvstakken</span></td></tr>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finished grading EVERY SINGLE one of my high schoolers’ essays, including the backlog of late journal entries that have piled up over half a year</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arranged with a folkeskole in Copenhagen to let Amanda and I visit an English class next week when we’re in Denmark (the trip’s fully funded by Fulbright, did I mention?)</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Uploaded Word to my new computer and made friends at the Eplehuset</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Had lunch at Godt Brød, the yummiest bakery in all of Bergen, with Kyle and his American friend Mark. Mark is just like Kyle. By that I mean delightfully goofy, with a cheery American aptitude to be friendly to everyone and that American grin so easily missed among the stolid Bergenser.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spent a very worthwhile hour on the phone with Orbitz, rebooking my flight to Sacramento this summer now that the airline I was supposed to fly is cancelling all flights out of Columbus starting in June. I ended up with a cheaper flight than the original. Also cheered up the customers service people at Orbitz. </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Changed 100 euro into 600 kroner. Magic.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sent my father an email. I don’t do that enough. </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hit up the library, Kiwi, and post office. Expect your last batch of postcards, oh loved ones of mine.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hiked up Fløyen in the rain and wind. Looked out over Bergen. Hiked down.</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fresh salmon for a delicious dinner during which an Iranian woman steadily blew Mark’s mind about what life is like in the Middle East.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My first taste of brennevin, an Icelandic alcohol made from potatoes and so good that they had to put it in an ugly bottle to bring sales down. It didn’t work. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrQY-9RbFt_xltbXEUp4xc5rJr6GpPfAcPd_J9s01cCxpatFYzOJzbJFvcXjG5cw-v0IkhOqVxsZhzKer2fIs53rnJdurOryteiNBytdc_gDH2Ijh1P2XrWwfSNrULyz9FsNIRqIymGA/s1600/399126_10150870394532295_685047294_9297753_799316521_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" dba="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrQY-9RbFt_xltbXEUp4xc5rJr6GpPfAcPd_J9s01cCxpatFYzOJzbJFvcXjG5cw-v0IkhOqVxsZhzKer2fIs53rnJdurOryteiNBytdc_gDH2Ijh1P2XrWwfSNrULyz9FsNIRqIymGA/s400/399126_10150870394532295_685047294_9297753_799316521_n.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When I told Perle this picture sums up our relationship, she responded</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> 'Yes. You're silly, I'm classy.' I think I have the better deal.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All in all, a perfect day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every time I speak to my mother over the past couple of weeks, she’s anxiously asked whether I’m going to be okay when I return to the States. It’s like she’s conditioning me to be sad when I get back. I know I’m going to miss Bergen regardless, but her questioning has prompted me to really savor every second. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I had a fabulous cheider with the boys on Sunday. We brought in the State of Israel with a bang, playing games where we ‘’drained the swamps’’ (making quite a mess), snuck past British immigration, and trained in the Haganah. Then they held a hilarious debate about whether to accept the offer of Uganda as a state (Uganda’s bigger! Israel has nicer beaches! Uganda has all those nice African people!). They pored over the map I'd drawn, asking questions about the borders and which directions Israel was attacked from in the War of Independence. Teaching them Hatikvah made me quite emotional. Any national anthem is calculated to sound stirring but something about these kids, singing of their hope to return to Israel in a language they couldn’t understand, hit my buttons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking forward to the visit of Yael, my Swedish friend, and 17 Mai, Norwegian national day! </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sunny Days at Fantoft</span></td></tr>
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HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-67480916721832817632012-05-10T18:39:00.001+02:002012-05-10T21:03:40.437+02:00Snow in May: Katteli<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tuesday morning I woke up early to take the train to Myrdal and meet my high school students on their overnight trip. As I brushed down the aisle of the lokaltoget, I heard my name called. Vilde, one of my brightest and most mature students, was moving her backpack so I could come sit with her. She’d been sick the day before and was going up to meet the class like me. The two hour ride passed quickly as she filled me in on all the details of her life and perspective that one never gets to hear about in the classroom. She told me her dad said she's got so much potential, she must fulfill it. I hope the hokiness of the statement doesn't put her off-- the girl's got talent, and a pressuring father won't make her rebel. She's too stable. </span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The rest of the class jumped aboard at Eggjareid stasjon. They seemed to have arrived from nowhere: the train tracks stretched into tunnels in the mountain on either side, and looking out one saw a vast expanse of snowy mountain wilderness, but craning my neck down I could see Katteli, the school’s hytta, or cabin, buried in the snow at the bottom of the slope. The class had struggled up the slick ice to the train platform, and were all cheerfully pulling off scarves and stamping their feet as they steamed into the carriage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At Myrdal we took the Flåmsbana down to Berekvam. Led by the geology teacher, we hiked down the valley to Flåm. It was an easy walk, fairly flat and mostly gravel road or paths that meandered back and forth across the river’s bridges. At first I picked up the rear, fooling around with the Rwandan, Afghan, Palestinian, and Yemeni kids who were part of the freshmen immigrant class (mostly refugees, they are in their own class so they can have extra help on Norwegian and English). They decidedly disliked hiking, but luckily my smidgen of Arabic amused them. We bonded over the word fadicha and they kept moving. Then the Norwegian teacher, Ødin, held the back and I got to move around, chatting with my students in pairs and small groups. They told me about their lives before Katten, their families, their social cliques and hobbies and travel plans. I learned who lives with their grandparents, who wants to be a politician or journalist, who has sibling rivalries or siblings with disabilities, and who has boyfriends or girlfriends. Watching them together made me strangely emotional. They watch each others’ backs in the nicest way, and were quite happy to chat with me despite the fact that it meant they had to work away in English. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped at the Flåm church, where the kids sang the hymn ‘Forst songen jeg horte’. I sat outside with Nasro, my Somalian student. She wasn’t sure whether she was allowed in a church, and so we slappet ourselves by the cemetery gate. She told me how she’d lived in a tiny village like Flåm for her first two years in Norway and actually really enjoyed it because, she said, ‘I was the only different one. The only different person in the whole village. So I could do whatever I wanted. I could ride a bike in a skirt and nobody thought it was weird, they just thought it was me.’ I understood. That ability to define oneself so freely is something that’s come to me in Bergen as well. We chatted on about her family, who lives in Kenya now, and her shyness of speaking in class, and the cultural adaptations she had to make when she came to Norway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent a few minutes in Flåm so the kids could load up on chocolate milk and Freia, and then took the train back up to Eggjareid and belly-flopped our way down the mountainside. Every few paces the snow turned slippery and we all fell when we hit the same spots, popping back up and then slipping a few more feet as though we were jack-in-the-boxes on an assembly line. Ingrid, right behind me, resigned herself and just slid the whole way down on her butt. Our soundtrack was an orchestra of high-pitched shrieks and giggles. We reached Katteli from the back, where they hadn’t bothered clearing a space, so that the snow was tucked up to the roof and it looked as though the building were one enormous inverted book on its side. The front had a path cleared, though, and we jumped from the high snow bank down into the doorway and stumbled into the mudroom, already a tangled jungle of boots. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hung with a group of my students before dinner, and decided to stick with them for the meal. They were more comfortable and less inhibited with me than the teachers, some of whom felt decidedly out of their depth in English. But the girls rapid-fire chattered away as though we were at summer camp and I the cool counselor. I sang ‘Hurrah for deg’ for Eirin since it was her birthday, cracking them all up and making them do the movements along with me. Later that evening Åshild came up shyly to ask if I wanted to play cards with them. I blew their minds with the American versions of card games and Mafia. Can you imagine, they play without even a doctor or detective, to say nothing of the various other townspeople that fit into my scenario? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning we took a bus ride to Voss that startled my eyes with its magnificence and my stomach with its windings. This was the kind of journey that my grandparents had paid a thousand kroner to see, and the students slumped against the windows and snored through it. Sometimes I want to shake Norwegians and shout, ‘’look! You live in heaven! Admire it, dammit!’’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived at the Voss Folkesmuseet, a museum of Norwegian history and culture. I shocked my students when I interrupted the tour guide to ask a question. You just asked something in perfect Norwegian? You understood him? Do you understand <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us? </i>What most of them wanted to know was, ‘But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> would you learn Norwegian?’ They don’t seem to grasp the wonder of a new language unfolding, but see English as a purely pragmatic exercise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today I had the most awkward experience of my entire teaching career. At least, I hope. I was minding my own business, teaching away on how to integrate evidence with analysis in an essay, and a few russ, or graduates, knocked on the door to ask if they could do a russ activity. They wear stupid pom pom hats during early May which acquire knots when they fulfill activities, boy scout-style. Anyhow, I was game, and told them they had five minutes. It was only when I sat down in the back that one of the Martins told me they were about to teach sex-ed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay, I figured. It will be funny. Well, it wasn’t. It was insanely inappropriate. I’m not sure exactly what happened between that moment and the one in which a russe was dry-humping one of my students on the teacher’s desk, but eventually I figured out that I ought to send them packing, yet I still hesitated. Everyone was laughing, including the student who had volunteered, but after they’d moved into a wheelbarrow posture I said, ‘Good job’ in a very final tone and waved them out the door. I feel guilty—I think I didn’t react quickly enough. For a long moment I forgot I was a teacher in charge of students, and felt like an incredulous American lost in Norwegian culture. I was the foreigner who didn’t know what was going on, instead of the teacher who keeps the classroom a safe space. The kids seemed mostly amused by it. A couple covered their eyes in embarrassment, while most just clapped and congratulated the volunteer on being so cool about it. One filmed it on her camera. So now I’ve had this experience, and know that I wouldn’t allow it again, but this is one of those utterly useless experiences where the lesson learned is unlikely ever to be needed again. I hope. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pictures from Katteli</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">:</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anita listening intently</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do you mean, we have to go back DOWN???</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8SzmCs_8s2Clmgn9yRWSCUAGVRUOPgGhyphenhyphenOuN3Lj2Lqd4ZWkA4WuTHs1TUyTwRrKa7nN-tBuIRix0_8k6JLSrEoHeOoIzGupG4qCcsWnY5dpA3xuTgrZIdqsDoipmiFMXwb943vDBB48/s1600/Katteli+049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>The view from our window in the morning</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA649ABKkBTeANcdc2BF7FWZ7BEEieHYDw0M_C_m9g2KeT5ll0_WEyGwo6if7RYaDoNIfX0K-Sd4WRfNlRIoRnMpx3QI1J7XkmjPW5Vz5hZGkpBnNuwU-Bxu6TUykuMugr1zW8cKHw8g/s1600/Katteli+057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" dba="true" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzA649ABKkBTeANcdc2BF7FWZ7BEEieHYDw0M_C_m9g2KeT5ll0_WEyGwo6if7RYaDoNIfX0K-Sd4WRfNlRIoRnMpx3QI1J7XkmjPW5Vz5hZGkpBnNuwU-Bxu6TUykuMugr1zW8cKHw8g/s640/Katteli+057.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on the group picture</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Honestly, how could you not adore these kids?HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-55564697250097262502012-05-07T22:41:00.001+02:002012-05-07T22:43:33.157+02:00Eat, Tour, Lecture<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tuesday was Labor Day, and Norwegians celebrated labor by stopping it. In the afternoon I headed out with the English graduate students to the grass near the big red Church with pølser, øl, and an ennganggrill tucked under our arms. A few fifty other people had the same idea. So we staked out our square of grass, carefully avoiding eye contact in regular Norwegian fashion, and they set up to grill their hot dogs. I looked mournfully down at the Frisbee I’d hopefully brought out—no way would these antisocial Bergenser be cajoled into a game with strangers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As they ate their pølser and I snacked on the pineapple I’d brought, we talked, as Norwegians always do when an American is present, about how insular Norwegians are socially. It’s funny—nearly everyone I’ve met seems disapproving of it, yet no Norwegian ever attempts to mess with the status quo. On my return to Fantfoft, I passed some of my German friends grilling on the lawn—this time vegetarian! The zucchini and roasted red peppers they invited me to eat were much more filling than pineapple and beer, and we sat and chatted until the sunny day turned dusky cold. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My grandparents came in from Jerusalem on Wednesday, bringing big squashy hugs, pita and ptitim, and nearly the entire contents of the shuk with them. We strolled through the pastel Bergen evening, sitting on the benches along the city pond in the center, and then went to listen to Fulbrighter Sarah’s flute recital. We walked in late, and everyone applauded as we entered ahead of Sarah. Awkward. On our way back, we passed an old car show on the festplassen, and my grandparents waxed poetic about the good old days, telling ghost stories about old flames. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt exuberant to show my Bergen off to them. Their admiration, embarrassingly, seemed a kind of childish validation of the perfection of the place. Yes, I still need my grandparents’ approval. Bergen cooperated, and remained strangely sunny for the entire week. The city seemed to realize it had thrown us for a loop, and in a fit of pique burst out in sporadic snow showers and hail storms on Saturday, with intermittent sunny summery weather. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thursday we spent on the magnificent Voss-Flåm-Myrdal fjord cruise, and I struck up a conversation in Norwegian with my seatmate on the train that surprised even myself in its fluidity. We played bananagrams all shabbat, and Kim’s suggestions that ‘squinty’ and ‘pule’ were not real words (the OED begs to differ) sent me into a flurry of angry speed that left him and my grandmother convinced they ought never to doubt my vocabulary again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perle, Rachel, Marine and I met for Sunday evening tea, and through discussing the French elections managed to segueway into the way we’ve all been brainwashed to believe capitalism the best of all possible systems. Marine kept urging that there must be something better, we just have to think of it, and I played around with economics in a way that surely wasn’t intelligible to French ears. Yet it was all a game to me. As an American, I’m much less able to conceive of capitalism as non-ideal than my French buddies. Which nicely highlights the importance of travel to broaden the mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monday night I went to the rådhus, the city hall, to give a lecture to the Bergen branch of MIFF (Med Israel For Fred- With Israel For Peace). I talked about FRIEND, the Muslim-Jewish dialogue that I’d founded in college, and was careful, at the end, to throw in something about how it was only through the depth of our commitment to our own identities that we were able to understand others’ differences. In this way loyalty to one group actually enables understanding of a different one. Something rather foreign to the Norwegian mindset, which seems to have taken the Robbers Cave experiment too much to heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I enjoyed the rhythm of speaking. At first pausing every few moments so Erik could translate threw me off, but once I’d gotten into the sway, I realized how useful it was to be able to recollect my thoughts regularly in the middle of speaking, and used the pauses to enhance my humorous snippets. I also quickly simplified every single expression that I’d written in my notes, taking the straightest route to my ideas so as to ease my audience’s task of understanding what were rather complicated ideas to be delivered in a foreign language. Afterwards, they asked me questions that ranged from whether I believe Jews and Muslims have the same G-d, to my experiences living in Elqana five years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tomorrow I wake up early and take the train to meet my high schoolers at Berekvam, from which we’ll hike down to Flåm and have an overnight at the school’s cabin, Katteli. The only thing better than being a high school student in Norway, is being a high school teacher in Norway! </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">P.S. Last night I poured tea over my keyboard while chatting with my Ima. Unfortunately, my macbook can no longer handle the letters c, v, b, or n, which proved problematic when trying to log on after I'd taken the battery out to check that it was dry. Shouldn't have used a password with the letter n! Anyhow, I can't access any of my pictures, and am going to be stuck on my school laptop for the remainder of my time in Norway. Apologies for both being pictureless, and for the occasional æs and øs that will sneak into my writing.</span>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-43000995583516922702012-04-30T23:45:00.002+02:002012-04-30T23:58:40.419+02:00I Want to Have Your Babies<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBeCIjc6TFf263jzg4ewps_se2RNDnZxa5o18s8xvCDGGZOck5tqIhBN3wNcfp4X4tdWn87MwpyDOWfi_l3hY6pkwc9_OzYfKa7dcVwXvkytQB5Ei5gpS67XrdB1MX6lWcgLy7kR1_mM/s1600/535497_10150673261930356_729300355_9571387_1182819269_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBeCIjc6TFf263jzg4ewps_se2RNDnZxa5o18s8xvCDGGZOck5tqIhBN3wNcfp4X4tdWn87MwpyDOWfi_l3hY6pkwc9_OzYfKa7dcVwXvkytQB5Ei5gpS67XrdB1MX6lWcgLy7kR1_mM/s400/535497_10150673261930356_729300355_9571387_1182819269_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparing the Pig-icorn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This weekend was one long mix of melancholy and delight.
Ruth, my best friend here in Bergen, left on Sunday because she has to be back
in the States in time to train for Teach for America next year. We’ve kept each
other going all year, and settled into a friendship that’s remarkable for not
being simply circumstantial, but based on a lot of respect and a similar sense
of humor. I was pretty determined not to let goodbyes get me down, and
intentionally over-programmed to keep myself from drifting into pathetic
nostalgia.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Friday afternoon Ruth threw her combination
birthday-farewell party. It was old school. Pin the tail on the donkey (which,
true to form, Perle and I played competitively), three-legged races, and burlap
sack relays with the Klubb trash bags (Fergus shouting “save one for tonight!”
and making me wonder how clean the klubb could be if one trash bag was enough
for an entire night of drunken partying). We hung up our unicorn piñata, whose
graceful form inclined rather more to the swinous family than to the
equestrian, and took a few whacks at it. After sundry knockings down and
re-lynchings, we let it sit on the floor and swung at it with mop handles in a
vicious Kitty Genovese re-enactment. Then, as Andreas said, we feasted on its
flesh. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWt7Yq1MLINF9GG38Cerb4Hbuyo8HHiTSGbwNhk8ekUzvznhXlV3Qnp3TcpRYXXCZGI1DCGCBbohMyoWxGfKatG0TeSJszf5GcQU3kE7ivT4WIlDg23spkFE1Le6mCprchl0vIJroo20/s1600/427863_10151566075575375_838965374_23621841_964052320_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWt7Yq1MLINF9GG38Cerb4Hbuyo8HHiTSGbwNhk8ekUzvznhXlV3Qnp3TcpRYXXCZGI1DCGCBbohMyoWxGfKatG0TeSJszf5GcQU3kE7ivT4WIlDg23spkFE1Le6mCprchl0vIJroo20/s640/427863_10151566075575375_838965374_23621841_964052320_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXdKEsy3GdEtkCX4GYp4_-TDhHgkSex3M_JYn04Jw6_8CFCO3J9_nKaTjNnPwNRKIDLzJkhvtc5kiuoSk6Cw-e4kZQYvyNpJB41HktHTb78BI3TRnYi2qpj3xp3LO64moB2wxDq8m4Qc/s1600/100_3060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXdKEsy3GdEtkCX4GYp4_-TDhHgkSex3M_JYn04Jw6_8CFCO3J9_nKaTjNnPwNRKIDLzJkhvtc5kiuoSk6Cw-e4kZQYvyNpJB41HktHTb78BI3TRnYi2qpj3xp3LO64moB2wxDq8m4Qc/s320/100_3060.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The final product</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Afterwards we decided to walk down to Gamlehaugen and chill
by the fjord. I spent an entire hour talking to a Spanish guy I’d met only
briefly before. Well, let’s be honest—in an hour’s conversation with a Spanish
male, the other party doesn’t do much talking. He told me many things, among
them his need for a flat screen tv so he can watch Avenger movies, his dislike
of Norwegian women’s aggression in bars, and why he adopted the Irish name
“Fergus” in place of his given “Francisco.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDMH-n1k1ks4333SY5gJhHGgOySUUByNG4hQvYqvWnyyDgG5e2Xw-B4XmyiHVTBbBIV6cWIJV502fnsnjluKdCnFWCQPODmrMmXp0Z0EY4hFmva2o6Orv30qkXg0bMTu3DQQMkQjUPaQ/s1600/527359_10150673264790356_729300355_9571424_252723244_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDMH-n1k1ks4333SY5gJhHGgOySUUByNG4hQvYqvWnyyDgG5e2Xw-B4XmyiHVTBbBIV6cWIJV502fnsnjluKdCnFWCQPODmrMmXp0Z0EY4hFmva2o6Orv30qkXg0bMTu3DQQMkQjUPaQ/s400/527359_10150673264790356_729300355_9571424_252723244_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what competitive Pin-the-tail-on-<br />
the donkey looks like</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he discoursed, it struck me that I was having the
weirdest sensation: looking at
another human being and being unable to understand them. Sure, I knew what his
words meant, and got the general idea, but all of his vocal twitches, facial
expressions, vocabulary modulations gave me none of the nuance that I receive
from a nationality that I’m familiar with. I just couldn’t poke through to him.
I wanted to massage his cheeks into American expressions, scratch at the thick
rubbery plastic sheet that seemed to coat over and obscure the depth of meaning
in his words as though it were a lottery ticket, snatch at his humor with more
than one quizzical raised eyebrow. But I couldn’t get through to understanding.
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday morning the bybanen cut our goodbyes short, and in a
blur of farewells Kyle and I boarded the bybanen without getting a proper
moment of sadness. We met Martin and Cheri, the ocean bacteria Fulbrighter and
his wife, and Sarah, the flautist Fulbrighter, at Danmarks Plass and headed up
the north side of Løvstakken for a Sunday morning trek. It was a strange day
for Bergen—not a cloud in the sky—and we made it to the peak with only one
detour through the mud. The top boasted a 360 view of Bergen: the town center
nestled down to the north, boats skimming away from it and disturbing the deep
blue reflection on the water. Across the valley, Fløyen and Ulriken rose to the
east, and we stared across and imagined we could see hikers on their peaks. To the
south, across the stretch of fjord and then other mountains, we saw the
faintest touch of white—Finse, and the glacier. And finally, to the west, was a
strip of simple blue that was the North Sea, and eventually the Atlantic.
Somehow, that was the direction we ended up sitting in, staring across
homewards as we talked about how our year has changed us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5s3wa3ueOishBRK95b4WTGv521HJd0UiCd3ujpsib5ZnvqKm4SW7yrE0RodTNVoOkLXvbv4Qf49YIxTZIOrUEeRRmHNcbo6pUF7F1q14IKLzlTx2yIuZR_rGS4wUU4cIXrkClg5D9dS8/s1600/100_3121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5s3wa3ueOishBRK95b4WTGv521HJd0UiCd3ujpsib5ZnvqKm4SW7yrE0RodTNVoOkLXvbv4Qf49YIxTZIOrUEeRRmHNcbo6pUF7F1q14IKLzlTx2yIuZR_rGS4wUU4cIXrkClg5D9dS8/s400/100_3121.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Got lost, ended up in Middle Earth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That afternoon at cheider I taught about the Holocaust. I’d
meant to create a walk-through learning experience, starting with the boys in
cheider hearing about the Nuremberg laws and giving them all stars to wear,
then reading about Kristallnacht in the “newspaper” I’d created, fighting in
the Warsaw ghetto uprising, and, like Anne Frank, writing their journals in
hiding. We’d end with a succinct yet essential description of the death camps,
and then a discussion of the Whys and What ifs and How could its that must be
processed after a Holocaust lesson. But Tal had broken his foot, and Ruben had
a handball match, and when I called Ziv’s mother she gave me a very harried
tale about how one of their cows was sick and they were in crisis mode, so it
was just Benjamin and I. Unable to face sustaining all of the acting with just
one student, I decided to just approach it straightforwardly. We sat and
talked. We talked about the things he knew about the Holocaust, we read the
diaries and testimony and poems I’d brought, and we discussed, inevitably,
anti-Semitism in the modern age, and in his life. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mostly people are just curious... they look at me as the
expert on Judaism,” said this boy who says Kiddush every Friday night over
non-kosher wine, and visits Israel regularly without speaking a word of Hebrew,
and waited two hours in the rain with his family to walk through Anne Frank’s
hide-out in Amsterdam before they returned to Norway where Judaism is nearly as
obscured, as little noticed, as hidden, as she was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZz1_03z2-1Ho-ain3i4Wgkq-SCRk1NzECxdFXakTCRHa30lyNG7hblxmmSSSRiU0HDbZh5Yj_FOb2b0jqB8KM1YvEicD-DLQdDiDFy5sL3colun3Ee8HU8XRSBPRDhPeZPa3NYsmjfKo/s1600/100_3113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZz1_03z2-1Ho-ain3i4Wgkq-SCRk1NzECxdFXakTCRHa30lyNG7hblxmmSSSRiU0HDbZh5Yj_FOb2b0jqB8KM1YvEicD-DLQdDiDFy5sL3colun3Ee8HU8XRSBPRDhPeZPa3NYsmjfKo/s400/100_3113.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An auspicious date atop Løvstakken</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mostly they don’t say mean things.” He paused. “I’ve never
had to fight anybody,” he said. I nod and exude counselor-like understanding in
my response, incredibly glad that I’ve gotten to know this kid and his brother
and their buddies, glad to be able to glimpse their lives and trade thoughts
through the tiny sections of our spheres that overlap.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday night Inbar, one of the shlichot, came to sleep over
before her family arrived in Bergen the next day. As we walked down to
Gamlehaugen in the evening, our conversation inevitably swung around to
Judaism. We talked about the judgmental nature of Jewish communities, and how
nice it’s been to simply flow in Norway without fear of rumor. The high number
of our friends who have decided to leave the faith, and break shabbat with an
insistently triumphant delight. The degree to which our own practice has
changed while in Norway, and whether we’ve become more or less careful with
different aspects of halacha. Comparing the situations to which we’d be
returning, we each envied the other, I her expansive Israeli community, she my
close-knit North American community. As always, she expressed amazement at my
ability to remain shomeret mitzvot in a city alone, and I smile modestly. I
cannot explain to her how much easier it is than having company. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPNCnn8ydXZu6kebstAiUVGZCBSlQHmmOJqGl3Jb5wZm-1Mh9Ie8oXdHfHAVdstIF3RfWmvA1Twdkb_nsV09uBQDirtWFSvULTSc08ELtEPUmmF6FVBFL0cv1Kjrco0jm9QUUOoPVV98/s1600/427935_10151566075720375_838965374_23621842_1971950597_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuPNCnn8ydXZu6kebstAiUVGZCBSlQHmmOJqGl3Jb5wZm-1Mh9Ie8oXdHfHAVdstIF3RfWmvA1Twdkb_nsV09uBQDirtWFSvULTSc08ELtEPUmmF6FVBFL0cv1Kjrco0jm9QUUOoPVV98/s400/427935_10151566075720375_838965374_23621842_1971950597_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balloon Wars!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun has shone for three straight days. When I jogged
Storetveitvannet this morning, I saw not a cloud in the lake. The streets of
Bergen were filled with soon-to-be graduates in their russebukser, Bergenser
snacking on their first ice cream of the season (I met up with a friend, Yael,
who introduced me to the joy of softis—with Daim topping!), and shoppers
cramming their kitchens full before everything closes tomorrow for Labor Day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWWbJdnPHde3zcTYohvQcKNpGyqwWkQAk5tVz0cfurgnDQPHg5KbBfr13AE8-BpghB1UXU8K-j_HyUv0tWQSCIMcyoLTDTEmRCOclykDjrKlI_wOrKJsTbFIdfc2aRT85JJ_D-yxf590/s1600/280448-10-1262814741001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWWbJdnPHde3zcTYohvQcKNpGyqwWkQAk5tVz0cfurgnDQPHg5KbBfr13AE8-BpghB1UXU8K-j_HyUv0tWQSCIMcyoLTDTEmRCOclykDjrKlI_wOrKJsTbFIdfc2aRT85JJ_D-yxf590/s320/280448-10-1262814741001.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ridiculous russebukse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perle and I decided to make use of the leftover cream I’d
made from Ruth’s party, and with Rachel, Sophie, and Marine, we had a picnic
out on the lawn in front of my apartment. It was meant to be a strictly
strawberries-and-cream affair, but the three French women were hungry, and so a
loaf of crusty bread and a sausage made of pig’s blood brought all the way from
France made an appearance, as well. Rachel tried it, but I begged off. There are
times where keeping kosher is not just <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
irritating, it’s downright convenient. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
American and French women make a fun pairing—we’re all
pretty high-spirited, and ranged over some good conversational ground, fighting
out the Dominique Strauss-Kahn affair and slamming French and American music.
At some point during the discussion, Sophie brought up the phrase that’s used
to an attractive guy to let him know, jokingly, that he’s hot: “I want you to
rape me.” !!! Perle and Marine assured us that it sounds much funnier in
French, and tried to assuage my shock that that would ever be a joking way of
expressing admiration. I tried to think of the American equivalent, and came up
with, “I want to have your babies.” I was utterly surprised to see the French
women startled by that. It’s too intimate, they said. Too personal. Right, I
tried to explain, and that’s worse than violence <i>how</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? We ended in a discussion of self-enforced gender
oppression, and I left them waving and calling “bye, beeeyatch!” as I swung
indoors. Sigh. Cultural exchange is wonderful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-37560836230853407972012-04-27T09:21:00.002+02:002012-04-27T09:23:05.405+02:00What's the Opposite of Lazy?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eI9q74pHQR9CLZfiFGFclbzVux2j7ACHUjL7iz-6lHUSCoJDyh9eZFXLosuqkEgY4fxJagIE2Xxv5Z6tUHnu-ivQKM-K-irbxEKpIILw068sD-a2hkYSK7r8YfJ1fS3cBqM9zx0YwlQ/s1600/100_3031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eI9q74pHQR9CLZfiFGFclbzVux2j7ACHUjL7iz-6lHUSCoJDyh9eZFXLosuqkEgY4fxJagIE2Xxv5Z6tUHnu-ivQKM-K-irbxEKpIILw068sD-a2hkYSK7r8YfJ1fS3cBqM9zx0YwlQ/s320/100_3031.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday was so beautiful, I felt inspired when I woke up and
went for a jog around Tveitvannet. Then it was still so beautiful, I went for a
hike up Ulriken. Then it was still so beautiful, I stayed up there. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvGB8um8-NNnV2dG1uDOsdM5l4jWt7TV_VHKPA13HgZgmDP_cCAb7wcFLJvcKQUJrLn2svUpvBbkla_pBiuPBfxMv9KNeoELiN500_S1RNfV4EISGFUkwzKU-fC45e-21hJYkoYExfco/s1600/100_3023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvGB8um8-NNnV2dG1uDOsdM5l4jWt7TV_VHKPA13HgZgmDP_cCAb7wcFLJvcKQUJrLn2svUpvBbkla_pBiuPBfxMv9KNeoELiN500_S1RNfV4EISGFUkwzKU-fC45e-21hJYkoYExfco/s320/100_3023.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rest of Bergen also hiking Ulriken</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Priceless moment: Ruth asked if she could bring anything to
dinner. Nope, I told her, I’m not making anything big deal-ish anyways, I’m not
being... what’s the opposite of lazy? She shrugged. Then we looked at each
other and laughed. Proud moment for Fulbright.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the review session for the seminar on American
itineraries in literature, Lene asked me to give an impromptu sum-up of the
course. Because who doesn’t like expatiating at great length on short notice?
Bare tull, I loved it. Finally got to tell all those Norwegians that America
isn’t <i>that </i><span style="font-style: normal;">bad. Got a few laughs, too,
and maybe a bit of thought on starting their own Norwegian identity
complication project—one of the students promised she’d be writing the next
Tripmaster Monkey—so hopefully it wasn’t all babble to them. Sometimes I just
want to take them by their quiet Norwegian throats and shake them into
discussion. You’d think insulting Norwegian ability to integrate would do it,
but nope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyVWw19JCq05QILXpbaRcKXZs8OABH_HBIdwTNEnm7YEVE4jaILngK4N2nkDp1GlH6hLvVlTkr2izUwDJ4_vXUt1_8yRLOeFeVYUsK8VzQIQayCTgNfE46-tz0FEXCPzOmZRRKYJk4AJI/s1600/100_3037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyVWw19JCq05QILXpbaRcKXZs8OABH_HBIdwTNEnm7YEVE4jaILngK4N2nkDp1GlH6hLvVlTkr2izUwDJ4_vXUt1_8yRLOeFeVYUsK8VzQIQayCTgNfE46-tz0FEXCPzOmZRRKYJk4AJI/s320/100_3037.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel and Ruth over-enthusiastic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past week, we’ve been building a paper mache unicorn
for Ruth’s birthday/goodbye party. I insisted on a paper mache bat as well,
because nothing’s so meta as killing a paper mache unicorn with a paper mache
bat. Plus, this way you get candy no matter what. And more exposure time to
flour glue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yom HaAtzmaut evening, the Israeli community organized
karaoke and an Israeli dinner for everyone. Racheli, the BA shlicha, and
Revital, the Israeli consulate, flew in from Oslo with falafel. The karaoke was
hilarious—Odelia and Na’ama got really into it, and mostly it was a mass of us
singing together, taking turns on the mike and belching out all our favorites.
Na’ama kept shouting, “afilu Chana makirah hashir hazeh!” when she was trying
to get wallflowers to join in. Because, you see, I am <i>the</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Americani. Anyhow it was lots of fun, and as Revital
pointed out, the kind of crazy that takes Norwegians five drinks to achieve,
Israelis can do sober. And these Israelis were not sober. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDoCTeHczH-VxgEL5eSdaFhs3MvZ1GRhumg104FXNkcVkHR7Fd2fgFGajzBTWYv2uMWBJyf6yMD_fCrIZF0-GmW5WvRW4DWESnTbUpeNCfEYFEmz8NndiheSap4CGkH3zd-nmqAtROJiY/s1600/100_3039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDoCTeHczH-VxgEL5eSdaFhs3MvZ1GRhumg104FXNkcVkHR7Fd2fgFGajzBTWYv2uMWBJyf6yMD_fCrIZF0-GmW5WvRW4DWESnTbUpeNCfEYFEmz8NndiheSap4CGkH3zd-nmqAtROJiY/s320/100_3039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyle, the paper mache master, showing how</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My adult class got into a great argument about youth crime,
which allowed some of them to talk about the gangs they’d been in as teens, and
why they’d joined. Some fascinating personal stuff came out, though mostly I
was awash in wonderment at how tame Norwegian gangs are compared to the messes
we get up to in the States. Interestingly, Norway has an incredibly high weapon-to-person
ratio, and yet one of the lowest weapon-related crime rates. So much for gun
control. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOVwzeR2C0Prj1bDznLAnrGNnQuDEDwKzZHY8h6LMjq2e5a9x0nxrZYAblHRvb-_tGef4kULv1TWGCkIm_Ph86-AEh45hejo6c9Hq32dSi2VW6VYub0SPcLOviPptrF5etucjuDNQV40/s1600/100_3045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOVwzeR2C0Prj1bDznLAnrGNnQuDEDwKzZHY8h6LMjq2e5a9x0nxrZYAblHRvb-_tGef4kULv1TWGCkIm_Ph86-AEh45hejo6c9Hq32dSi2VW6VYub0SPcLOviPptrF5etucjuDNQV40/s320/100_3045.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now we're pros</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While explaining how to write a thesis to my high schoolers,
I repeated the Norwegian word Anita gave me for talking without evidence,
something that sounded like “synsing” (Elise? Jonas? What was it?). The whole
class laughed, and humorously fed up with the way they always mock my
pronunciation, I finally stuck it to them. I told them to repeat after me: “We
were very wary when the things were very scary ‘cause we worried they were
varied when they were really very wearied.” It’s about the meanest thing you
can do to Norwegians, who have trouble differentiating v from w when they talk,
and also don’t have a natural ‘th’ in their language. The class attempted it
valiantly, in a rumble of laughter, but couldn’t do it. I told them when they
had it down they could go back to laughing at my Norwegian. Delicious moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-85175625161223995362012-04-22T00:15:00.002+02:002012-04-22T00:15:44.800+02:00Sunset Treks<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRgk1vAjr4gWedTLVbfcIGwZRy8Ovdt0H5Nao80IsYaKi9oHQ1-u7DUsPpmJDibSevtrxmd5CIdv9_dnfEEh2VgA4quRUa0bAcbnWPjylkiq8RTczxqtIQVUxa6MCxX6vOGceyw0FEX8/s1600/Tveitevannet_Pier_by_Quatschi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRgk1vAjr4gWedTLVbfcIGwZRy8Ovdt0H5Nao80IsYaKi9oHQ1-u7DUsPpmJDibSevtrxmd5CIdv9_dnfEEh2VgA4quRUa0bAcbnWPjylkiq8RTczxqtIQVUxa6MCxX6vOGceyw0FEX8/s320/Tveitevannet_Pier_by_Quatschi.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dock at Tveitevannet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went for a post-kiddush walk Friday night. There were
police questioning a car in front of the king’s gate, but they didn’t seem to
mind anyone entering. I made up my mind to stroll with purpose, and they looked
at me, but didn’t say a word. I made a circle of Gamlehaugen, waved at two guys
that I couldn’t identify through the gathering dusk (they’d waved first, so I
guess I must have known them), and then climbed down the rocks to sit and muse
by the fjord for awhile. I slipped my hand into the water. It seemed quite
warm. Soon I’ll be able to swim in it. Then I realized that my breath was
coming out a mist from the cold. Yet I was comfortable, in only a skirt,
leggings, tank top, and hoodie. Something’s off with my internal thermal system—or
else my temperature has always best fitted this climate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon returning to Fantoft I used my shabbat key for the
first time. Two entire picnic tables—one full of Asian students, the other the
vortex of a group of Muslim women—fell silent and watched me struggle to use
the key without taking it off my skirt’s belt. It’s great to feel so absurd
that even other minorities stop to watch. As I stepped inside with relief, a
guy came in from the back door. I nodded as I passed him on my way up the
stairs, but he called to me in a slight accent, “not taking the elevator?” </div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXDcz6LSgTQmreInox3DYhckJjjiGjaAD7rKaTodE3dirR8KlG5W1Ul2eGaety66oPjQyG6fZxYVOBBRGkv1yvlRrs5ezPG0ZfuYZVbZDKQg0omY6kk-j6tXJtXcJhJ28fQ-oj8g5HV6I/s1600/435394820_e058cb8643_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXDcz6LSgTQmreInox3DYhckJjjiGjaAD7rKaTodE3dirR8KlG5W1Ul2eGaety66oPjQyG6fZxYVOBBRGkv1yvlRrs5ezPG0ZfuYZVbZDKQg0omY6kk-j6tXJtXcJhJ28fQ-oj8g5HV6I/s320/435394820_e058cb8643_m.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tveitevannet with Ulriken behind it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I live on the first floor,” I told him. He looked quite nice, even though he
had engineered his hair to stick up on top.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Too bad,” he smiled. I half-smiled back and continued up
the stairs, thinking about all the moments this year when I’ve walked away from
suggestions of flirtation and wondering if I’m now totally out of practice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shabbat morning dawned misty, cloudy, and sunny. Glorious
weather. I took my regular shabbat walk up Landås and found a path up Ulriken
I’d never seen before. Last time I was in this part of the mountains, the snow
had come up to my hips, and I’d slogged through in fear of messing up the ski
tracks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wt1XQ50k8DBiMdny5H4GLGPldhtMh1nL2s9nxy4mNfjHk0m0ukw8WcvU42ZH8pab9c0PI4E6u5l-gWPPj_S2iSRi6bmZykfntI7dE7XmwHbVBmAzhL3OyEg1xRvLpQWVN74H8ZrbRbQ/s1600/32224291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wt1XQ50k8DBiMdny5H4GLGPldhtMh1nL2s9nxy4mNfjHk0m0ukw8WcvU42ZH8pab9c0PI4E6u5l-gWPPj_S2iSRi6bmZykfntI7dE7XmwHbVBmAzhL3OyEg1xRvLpQWVN74H8ZrbRbQ/s400/32224291.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously none of these are my pictures of <br />Tveitevannet, but breathtaking nonetheless, eh?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I reached the top, I was parched. I found one of
the streams that courses down the mountain, and limited myself to ten gulps.
Figure that what I was drinking is probably as pure as American tap water. In
fact, it’s probably the stuff that Americans buy bottled.As the sun set, I finished <i>The Wasp Factory</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, which had riveted me all afternoon until the overly
explicit ending (the surprise was great, but why spell out every little bit of
Freudian mush you learned in college?), and went for a stroll around
Tveitvannet. The layers of sunset settled softly around the mountains. Near me,
I heard a whoosh as a duck plowed into the lake. Ripples fanned out behind it,
politely crisscrossing one after the other: first-you-now-me-now-you-now-me.
The reflection of sky turned from blushing azure into a more serious blue, and
the lights at Montana twinkled on as though the Bergenser were accomplices in
the pulchritude of the evening, trying to turn it all into a painting to be
captured in the impressionist brushstrokes of Tveitvannet. </span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-12404235507869228942012-04-20T17:51:00.000+02:002012-04-21T22:42:09.367+02:00The End is Perilously Near<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgiRDgCLOc0QnneDKEM1ayfuVkpf4zGyWUc_lwNb-8OZkfdstWf8hyphenhyphenws9_WuJEs3kLib4OfKr8jZtjXcSRbEddeK3-iviXzHH8HjPvL0u4dEJXHAldhd93tyujl1fMx7iDBQAox-7AbE/s1600/292278_10150743254578189_89859403188_9603272_1935915446_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgiRDgCLOc0QnneDKEM1ayfuVkpf4zGyWUc_lwNb-8OZkfdstWf8hyphenhyphenws9_WuJEs3kLib4OfKr8jZtjXcSRbEddeK3-iviXzHH8HjPvL0u4dEJXHAldhd93tyujl1fMx7iDBQAox-7AbE/s400/292278_10150743254578189_89859403188_9603272_1935915446_n.jpg" width="285" /></a>Yesterday was Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I
peeled a sticker that said “Yizkor: Remember” off a folder of mine and stuck it
to my sweater, forgetting about it until one of my high schoolers asked me
about it. All of a sudden I was extemporaneously holding a Yom Hashoah
assembly. I started out saying this was in memory of the
Holocaust, and telling them that in Israel the air raid sirens go off and
everyone in the entire country stands in silence for five minutes, and all of a
sudden my voice was cracking a bit and I was talking about the importance of
never again, not as victim, perpetrator, or bystander, and that when we say
that we must think of Rwanda and the Congo as well, and never remain silent
when people are targeted based on their color, sexuality, abilities, beliefs.
Especially remember that this week in Norway. As I said that, A, who’s been
glued to her laptop the entire week, unable to tear herself from Breivik’s
trial, looked up briefly, her continuously furrowed brow peaking even further
and then flipping back to her laptop. As I wound down, nobody spoke. “Oh,
oops,” I thought to myself. “I guess we’re having a moment of silence.” I
looked down, then up fiercely at the wall ahead of me (walking out of
Auschwitz, the survivor with us had said “komemiyut” and I took it as an order)
and silently counted out the seconds in this classroom with Norwegians. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I broke the silence, numerous hands were raised, all
wishing to tell me about the same thing. On May 17, when the parade passes
Mohlenpris, it stops for a moment of silence outside the houses of the Jews who
were deported from Bergen. That they do so fifty years after any recognizable
Jewish community has lived in Bergen astounds me; that my students know about
it warms the very cockles of my heart. Dear students, you do not need to
scramble to prove yourselves innocent and sympathetic. Nobody can blame you.
And I look at you and think of how you strive for goodness and wish the world could
know you too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As daylight stretches and my brain tells me that 7 pm is
really 4 pm, sefirat Haomer gets more difficult. I’m still counting with a
brachah, but pretty soon I’ll have to stay up until the wee hours of the morn
if I want to say it at night. Dreading Shavuot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sent in my final Fulbright report, thanking the Norway
office for their kick-ass help and suggesting improvements. I’m also in
constant contact with Ida, next year’s Bergen ETA. I’m realizing the huge
advantage of having someone to follow—all the questions she’s asking me, about
how to apply for Norwegian classes, where to live, what kind of phone to get,
the advice to bring something Trader Joesy for Anita— I had to find out the
hard way. </div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTtVMD85zwtRW3ccR0rxLQZhEfjlQjV4UWp1_lwqsc_2md5Ck6IxJR-jEdnmwB8D0-6si63wEGt7pSBZEKY_ZDhLxJhuu0TlSGOCTpck8fBc-Onm0SOppEe-U9VXryOWv57XjCXXIEw8/s1600/l_vstakken0008_400_1165746725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTtVMD85zwtRW3ccR0rxLQZhEfjlQjV4UWp1_lwqsc_2md5Ck6IxJR-jEdnmwB8D0-6si63wEGt7pSBZEKY_ZDhLxJhuu0TlSGOCTpck8fBc-Onm0SOppEe-U9VXryOWv57XjCXXIEw8/s400/l_vstakken0008_400_1165746725.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where I live. Aka, why I don't want to leave.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wrapping things up here has me realizing I should probably
start focusing on Toronto. Read the literature they’ve sent me, check the
classes available, maybe join one of those online chats (dear god no). But I’m
dreading it. I email Ida with such glee, such excitement about Bergen... it’s
hard to turn my thoughts Toronto-wards. I don’t want to live somewhere ugly,
with nasty sweaty summers and shlumpy leering North American men and big-city
Judaism. I don’t want to leave my students to the tender mercies of their next
year’s teachers when they’re so much better off under my tough love discipline.
I don’t want to be so far from the wonders of Europe. I’m not done exploring
yet. So for now, I’m just going to keep repeating to myself the mantra of
“literature. Literature. Literature with intelligent native speakers who will
shock my thoughts into newness. And it will be wonderful.” I’ll deal with the
rest as it comes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmm, I was going to post the above, but I think I should be
honest. After all, if I can’t tell the truth to my six billion friends on the
internet, who can I talk to? After actually buying the last leg of my ticket home last night, from DC to Cbus, I spiraled. Way down. Everybody has their crap days. Today, I
accomplished: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laundry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD-wwTXDgrnfJuLZp-x_K6o9XEG-jOM1feWSz0of2-DNfozkP9CGJXFbvui2NAMc4CuLlKjurP2aiNn5U0NCnZIyzRAC07bfOWwcbNP6gPFkuNVu23a48wAu7ZgKoyiC7KhMV85J70Yk/s1600/ben-and-jerrys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD-wwTXDgrnfJuLZp-x_K6o9XEG-jOM1feWSz0of2-DNfozkP9CGJXFbvui2NAMc4CuLlKjurP2aiNn5U0NCnZIyzRAC07bfOWwcbNP6gPFkuNVu23a48wAu7ZgKoyiC7KhMV85J70Yk/s320/ben-and-jerrys.jpg" width="241" /></a><br />
To be fair, laundry here takes four hours. I also watched
every back episode of the Daily Show that I’ve missed over the past month. This
became useful multi-tasking when I used my computer fan to dry my socks. I also
taught myself the lyrics to <i>Ka Er Du Redd For</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and played a drinking game while reading Obama’s </span><i>Audacity of
Hope </i><span style="font-style: normal;">where every time he predicted
something that has actually happened over the past four years, I took another
spoonful of ice cream. And, lest you be wondering, I don’t eat Norwegian ice
cream. This is 60 kroner Ben and Jerry’s I’m snacking on. Just a little something
to remind myself of why I should want to go home. Mostly for the ice cream. And let’s
be honest, nothing beats walking to the grocery store in your pj’s and buying a
pint. It’s something every well-adjusted person should do every few months just to give the world the middle
finger and remind pathetic people that everybody has moments when they like to
pretend they’re pathetic. I also bought strawberries. It wasn’t such a bad day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. I also had a nice conversation with the handyman. I
couldn’t find a good place to fit this into the blog post, but shout out to Marik.
Aaaaand, that’s Friday. </div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-70586075890746339162012-04-17T22:23:00.001+02:002012-04-17T22:24:34.760+02:00Shabbat Just Got a Whole Lot BetterA lot of you responded about my shabbat key problem, and I just wanted to let you know, a regular key is en route! I was meant to have a meeting with the housing officer tonight, and before I could say anything, he said, "all right, yes, well, we've decided to give you a key." I was very relieved and thankful. Although also surprised at the ease with which he about-faced.<br />
<br />
On returning home I checked my email and found a response from the Rektor's office-- apparently his secretary had rather a long talk with the housing officer after receiving my plea for help. Mystery solved. And shabbat is going to be much more pleasant than it would have otherwise. Here's to keeping the faith!HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-34264790874256809392012-04-17T15:08:00.000+02:002012-04-17T15:08:35.852+02:00Påske Egg and Spring<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It’s been gorgeous in Bergen since I returned, so this morning I went for a run around Teitvannet that seemed surreal in its beauty—somehow I kept telling myself this wasn’t real, it’s too much sunlit-mountain-shadowed-water-lapping beauty for reality. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjkOfbvZvnyCUbUJwfTJPeGWg7rkRtq2PeJfjgRQq_ImkHIkbyePHAPX5k2UPqIc_Z7VKbdgUrSuKnM7qwF42lMtGYoSua5zyit_TYwk9t1rbL0dFHyGrI81d3OJTCR05GefUhmNzF20/s1600/536032_10150697836074652_539374651_9627175_1089771219_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjkOfbvZvnyCUbUJwfTJPeGWg7rkRtq2PeJfjgRQq_ImkHIkbyePHAPX5k2UPqIc_Z7VKbdgUrSuKnM7qwF42lMtGYoSua5zyit_TYwk9t1rbL0dFHyGrI81d3OJTCR05GefUhmNzF20/s640/536032_10150697836074652_539374651_9627175_1089771219_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring in Nygårdsparken!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I had the high schoolers on my own today. I’d missed them over Spring Break. We were studying Britain’s youth crime problem today, so I split them into groups to simulate different characters and have debates. They’re so adorable; even when they’re in small groups they raise their hands. Well, not their hands. They hold up two fingers in the sign that means peace to me. It’s quite cute, as though all over the classroom kids are furiously waving in favor of hippy love.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end, some of the most intrepid students stood to debate before the class. One of them was engaged in passionate invective when he said, “and kids shouldn’t give a shit about school anyways!” The whole class erupted. “You mean <i>should</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> give a shit,” some shouted, and others, “you mean shouldn’t </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> give a shit, right?” Basically a lot of shit was thrown around the class before they’d sorted it out satisfactorily.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I asked them to do me a favor and take a picture for some friends of mine who just got engaged, and they absolutely loved the idea. I can’t properly explain their adorably eager, serious cuteness, but maybe this picture will help. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEZ2mTN_0eVr44L8jFTGBYv3o1hJWiKYWnodUNfti1ZC2BDOsEHvi4sLiNeBbuc-g-ouvl9awCWQUSaZsNNvAjTJN2KAgcCNri4cqkfwSQD0Cj4bgXibOUMHR499mBInOeAGO8MG-LNI/s1600/100_3020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEZ2mTN_0eVr44L8jFTGBYv3o1hJWiKYWnodUNfti1ZC2BDOsEHvi4sLiNeBbuc-g-ouvl9awCWQUSaZsNNvAjTJN2KAgcCNri4cqkfwSQD0Cj4bgXibOUMHR499mBInOeAGO8MG-LNI/s640/100_3020.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anita left me a Norwegian Easter egg on my desk. They’re enormous things that you fill with candy and then give anyone, not just kids, adults too. Did I tell you how much I love this country? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsi41sJXE1H47wW3Y_os1fCUC8Fdj59NOKj9dTpECiTv5mNj41zQ4v8H7huj9LYnXij0KVkg0Gh3i13qBdhhRYS29uyGxUWQ3IfWaEGFEIIshkPWJuxWJFxpfnp0qoo5UO_4tRYWfhBCw/s1600/100_3021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsi41sJXE1H47wW3Y_os1fCUC8Fdj59NOKj9dTpECiTv5mNj41zQ4v8H7huj9LYnXij0KVkg0Gh3i13qBdhhRYS29uyGxUWQ3IfWaEGFEIIshkPWJuxWJFxpfnp0qoo5UO_4tRYWfhBCw/s640/100_3021.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment-->HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-47658228619049694932012-04-15T19:21:00.000+02:002012-04-15T19:21:00.308+02:00Second Days in Oslo<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Wednesday I spent 22 hours in Bergen, cramming in three classes and a brisk several hour debriefing with Ruth (I was in London and she’s going to Nice for a week, so we needed to catch up very quickly). Wednesday night, I took the overnight train to Oslo for the second days of Passover. I arrived at the shlichot’s apartment exhausted and spent most of Thursday alternately trying to prepare lessons and dozing. Racheli and Inbar must have thought me a zombie, but we’re good enough friends by now that they laughed and declared the couch mine for the day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thursday night we ate at the Melchiors’ (chief rabbi of Norway). Man, can Norwegians talk about fish. Liat incautiously served a mixture of lox and egg salad for appetizers, which served as the catalyst. The two couples there described the entire catching, packing, and shipping process, and just when I thought we’d safely got our salmon off to Amsterdam, the discussion veered to how to eat it. Dumb Norwegians! Put it in a tube like toothpaste. Problem solved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We walked home with Sara, one of the Israeli-Norwegian Jews our age in Oslo. She’s one of the guards at the Jewish community center (actually the one who interrogated me and nearly made me cry the first time I came) and always has a more practical, or perhaps I should say, less forgiving perspective than mine. We got into a heated argument about mercy vs. pity vs. justice that I think scared Racheli in its intensity but Inbar found hilariously puzzling in its complexity of English terms. Anyhow, hers is an opinionated intelligence that I appreciate all the more for spending a year with smart people who won’t share their ideas. You know. All of Scandinavia. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Michael, the kid who’s going to be rabbi of Norway someday, was in town for pesach. Jewish Oslo is not that big, and we were placed next to each other at every meal. No doubt our hosts thought we’d find it interesting to talk to each other, since they had no clue how much he raised my hackles when we first met in Israel. But after two days of chag, familiarity bred, well, a lessening of antagonism. Still, I think he’s better equipped to be king of Norway than rabbi. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKso5YBKnUsu6pNhQ61axmVuzJEO1l2sc3IQTZIzNaNM4mCsU4R1NulV6qPVsPtzei-27xbhW-rvLZRLxEPJf0MYVn7oIeznkSLO9nP3EEvDo8l7AZNOgBsU34krKsJ3xBZX0gNVcTY-s/s1600/580241_10150676493423564_597883563_9573015_2021388463_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKso5YBKnUsu6pNhQ61axmVuzJEO1l2sc3IQTZIzNaNM4mCsU4R1NulV6qPVsPtzei-27xbhW-rvLZRLxEPJf0MYVn7oIeznkSLO9nP3EEvDo8l7AZNOgBsU34krKsJ3xBZX0gNVcTY-s/s400/580241_10150676493423564_597883563_9573015_2021388463_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raheli, Inbar and I henna'ing it up. Because, why not?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">After chag we launched into fast-forward mode and zoomed to the grocery to prep for Mimouna. Inbar set to work pounding the dough for the moflettot, and all the Israelis clustered around a laptop, choosing Sephardi songs so we could ululate our way through our post-pesach nosh fest. Finally I went to sleep in the wee hours of the morn, my belly distended with all kinds of chametz yums.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Three hours later I woke to catch my train back to Bergen. Before we started, a Thai family of three moved around the train, looking at seats. I was sitting in a cluster of four facing each other, so I offered to switch and let them all sit together, adding that we’d probably have to switch back when the train filled up in the mountains. They were grateful, and when the mom asked where I was from, and I said America, she nodded and smiled as though that explained something. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the conductor came by, and then other passengers looking for their seats, I realized I was trying to protect this family. I worried they would cringe before the conductor (what do I know of the Thai personality? Or whether there is one?) or that he and the Norwegian passengers would say “ugh, foreigners,” and I wanted to use my American-ness as a buttress. But it soon became clear that the family was very confident, very self-sufficient, and as I relaxed, I thought, “ah, they’re just like my family.” Then I woke up from my half-doze with a start as I realized that what I meant was, they have the confidence born of money. They travel, they move through the world with ease, because they know that their buck (penger? Thai currency?) will fix it all. Yikes. What heinous classism. I’ll worry about it when I wake up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, and the whole stretch from Ustaoset to Myrdal is winter wonderland. I forgot, seesawing between Bergen and Oslo as I do, that Norway is actually a cold country. Probably snow here means it’s raining in Bergen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hope you’re laughing, Te. This one's for you.</div><!--EndFragment-->HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-86139014570598053522012-04-11T18:22:00.002+02:002012-04-11T18:35:05.360+02:00A Little Leisurely Idol-Worship in London<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_2d7GOBExgDQ1msya7mB84iXaJiIErK3l4KSzEZsd4UsTmdiMYGkWxhfbAkqlE5AWfQI45Qi_5M5IijXLGZsHrepHeC4CHBdP8PV57Fo_985H7wuUuCE98j-4NqSchYftbGz884Duj4/s1600/100_2911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_2d7GOBExgDQ1msya7mB84iXaJiIErK3l4KSzEZsd4UsTmdiMYGkWxhfbAkqlE5AWfQI45Qi_5M5IijXLGZsHrepHeC4CHBdP8PV57Fo_985H7wuUuCE98j-4NqSchYftbGz884Duj4/s320/100_2911.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth, this pose is for you</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Monday evening, I flew in over London, listening to the mother behind me excitedly point out the London Eye to her child and trying to match the sights below to their enthusiasm. We ploughed through the clouds, and I wondered if swathes of empty space between heavy cloud cover always indicate an airport below. The sun set in watercolor splendor ahead of us, tinting the massive stretch of metallic city beneath us with mellow hues, and lighting up my first view of the Thames.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the first minute in the airport, I delighted in being in an English-speaking country. What a conscious relief, to no longer have to strain to understand or ever feel outside of a conversation. Then I passed through customs and realized I couldn’t understand a single thing the people behind me were saying. British accents can be just as daunting as Bergensk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJTV9U8mHmCkiT7ttDWFwQqdpaBwAcUbYj71J-H_8mFnKixqtyXAG0ETEy86D51PmWbciR85WrAyECa9cEa3GbyhVn6C1l1QWcHMQYnDIXQFhvzKQ80vT-XjosIqgjFpPoMntq6ruJc0/s1600/100_2886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJTV9U8mHmCkiT7ttDWFwQqdpaBwAcUbYj71J-H_8mFnKixqtyXAG0ETEy86D51PmWbciR85WrAyECa9cEa3GbyhVn6C1l1QWcHMQYnDIXQFhvzKQ80vT-XjosIqgjFpPoMntq6ruJc0/s320/100_2886.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We are our own totem pole</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Throughout my trip, I stayed with British friends of mine from my year in seminary. It’s funny to see them with the same personalities, only five years more mature. One of the things I notice is the confidence they all have, confidence born of belonging securely to one place. They are so certain of their spot. They have not left their home to wander the world and seek their fortune. And the <i>lucky</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> buggers! I don’t think they quite grasp how awesome it is to have GROWN UP IN LONDON! They could literally walk around the city, Dickens in hand, and read the proper parts at the proper places. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5ETvhQ-rX7D8KUoFHpy8nv8hJ81bbsRLRKu9vm7sISpwlWvDLW4-RtWx0Mgsr-aCDYWLN8PG8atsZo6Imf6QyOVxa4vYDNtq1oGMxtuu9yTQWMpfJpS1UUvTlJm3Ws-Q45D7dD4czg0/s1600/100_2917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5ETvhQ-rX7D8KUoFHpy8nv8hJ81bbsRLRKu9vm7sISpwlWvDLW4-RtWx0Mgsr-aCDYWLN8PG8atsZo6Imf6QyOVxa4vYDNtq1oGMxtuu9yTQWMpfJpS1UUvTlJm3Ws-Q45D7dD4czg0/s320/100_2917.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trafalgar Square</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Tuesday I did a quick brush-through of the main parts of London. We skimmed the British museum (what an impressive mass of stolen goods! And how fortuitous (or un) that I should begin reading Said’s <i>Orientalism</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> over chag!), Covent Garden with its Easter Egg exhibit, Trafalgar square for a picnic lunch, dipped through the National Gallery (Elana: hey, that’s famous! Wait, that one’s famous too! –Yes, yes, Elana, they’re pretty much ALL famous. That’s why they’re in the National Gallery), saw St. James’s Park and Buckingham Palace, stopped in a Starbucks where OF COURSE I ran into and struck up a conversation in a guy wearing a Buckeyes hat who’d grown up in Columbus long ago, and ended at Westminster on a bridge over the Thames. Pretty much London with ADD, but a good overview of the whole.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLBH8CGLFNyAl36TVZ08f2dMDEedAJ1z7MBBHA3gLnPciqCvO4LAvd1hXBXFnjxS_EzFgZjrrBxvITTdzsRzL8xDXxWOcosxU0SFWdtVYfh0Saykp0ARAbjSK8HSj2nEQBSdwb_3j8RY/s1600/100_2960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCLBH8CGLFNyAl36TVZ08f2dMDEedAJ1z7MBBHA3gLnPciqCvO4LAvd1hXBXFnjxS_EzFgZjrrBxvITTdzsRzL8xDXxWOcosxU0SFWdtVYfh0Saykp0ARAbjSK8HSj2nEQBSdwb_3j8RY/s320/100_2960.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Paul's</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">That night Talia took me up to Primrose Hill, above Regents Park, and we got to look out over the city. Humorously, its skyline is less impressive than New York’s. Because the height of buildings must be uniform, it presents less of a scramble of shapes and contours. Yet the distance it stretched out around us, far as the eye could see, was even more impressive.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wednesday I headed out on my own to St. Paul’s Cathedral, for a literary walking tour through Shakespeare and Dickens’ London. The people I asked for directions were also on the tour, and funnily enough, were Midwesterners visiting their daughter who had been an English major, done a Fulbright ETA in Thailand, and was now studying Gender and Development in London. So yeah, we clicked. And raced each other to answer the questions the tour guide asked about <br />
<a name='more'></a>literature. It was a nice glimpse of what one of my options might look like a few years on. That incarnation of me seemed happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhduuO5VnW122i8uHPJePeXslvGxA3wmY0bzSCY6TsPCSH9LKITMrPM9dNPDNj7v4OIfsRK0CwLGkBL3A7PE0BeyIRodLqCBeOGXcOvtngYQABLHxx7d2-8OaN5fAa39D1WN56hh0qnj0U/s1600/100_2965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhduuO5VnW122i8uHPJePeXslvGxA3wmY0bzSCY6TsPCSH9LKITMrPM9dNPDNj7v4OIfsRK0CwLGkBL3A7PE0BeyIRodLqCBeOGXcOvtngYQABLHxx7d2-8OaN5fAa39D1WN56hh0qnj0U/s320/100_2965.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Bailey</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The tour was led by an adorable, sharp, peppy tiny woman. She reminded me of a cross between Mrs. Moskowitz, my high school history teacher, and Naomi Bilmes (Zev, you’re the only one who can get both of those references). We followed her obediently through Cheapside, past the Old Bailey, down little alleyways in which Shakespeare had drank and Dickens stepped, and threaded <i>Little Dorrit, A Tale of Two Cities, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and </span><i>Bleak House</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> through the streets with us. It was slightly disjointed, seeing as how there were 200 years between the two writers, and then another 200 hundred until us, but it was interesting to see the different Londons overlaid one atop the other.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the tour, I wandered through London happily. From Chauncery Lane to Fleet Street to the Strand, with a stop at Lincoln’s Inn Fields for a picnic, and then further to St. James’s Park to sit and muse on the way in which the names I’ve heard and read forever actually exist. But the fowl quickly distracted me. There are enough exotic ducks and other birds in the park to keep one’s attention forever. And people.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7d4NJXi46u_4CiXRzihKvAbrUOhPhJWZ_8O_E3bWHijo9_YJbujw6Gb933i83ihYotjW8xP3LmC1DX1UbuUs5zDRXdruY3iHO_RS7UrDqSP4vsU2Mp_AOcnnbnbfUTSUN896C-D04Dfk/s1600/100_2929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7d4NJXi46u_4CiXRzihKvAbrUOhPhJWZ_8O_E3bWHijo9_YJbujw6Gb933i83ihYotjW8xP3LmC1DX1UbuUs5zDRXdruY3iHO_RS7UrDqSP4vsU2Mp_AOcnnbnbfUTSUN896C-D04Dfk/s400/100_2929.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In St. James's Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Near me, a Jewish family in kippot and tzitzit, skirts and mitpachat, kneels to take a picture. A Muslim family in hijabs stops to watch and let them take it. A little girl feeds the ducks with curious solemnity, her eyes wide and mouth also slightly ajar, glance darting around with peculiar purpose. A fearless pigeon coos right under my bench, waiting for me to drop the crumbs of my Trader Joe’s bar. As if. More pigeons peck around, and their gentle cooing is multiplied by numbers into a rumble. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel, as I wonder through London, that I must peg my thoughts to those of my authors, hanging them on the hat stands they’ve scattered through the city for me. But I’m also too much my own person, even “in the middle of St James’s Park on a fine morning,” and the independence fits into Mrs. Dalloway’s story anyhow, so I can’t worry too much. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A young couple sits beside me on the bench, each clasping éclairs in their waiflike fists, each with a bit of neon yellow somewhere on them—for him it’s the lining of his hoodie, for her in the strip of tank top peeking out beneath her leather jacket. They break off crumbs for the flocking pigeons. Their language sounds Slavic, I think. I wish I could understand their muttered asides into each others’ ears. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6NX_hbiR9Qy90Agq8aibAR7PNQ_pe_I-I98XfdVrkABTRuToaB_wlOJ6Bwp0yDKxOEjg7qMc2qSAGEpT-KwUkTtlQ8CP4hmup5fh-0xyhmUHcdNjp6MOzGoWN72FdAhpc_RU8sQF0vY/s1600/100_2912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6NX_hbiR9Qy90Agq8aibAR7PNQ_pe_I-I98XfdVrkABTRuToaB_wlOJ6Bwp0yDKxOEjg7qMc2qSAGEpT-KwUkTtlQ8CP4hmup5fh-0xyhmUHcdNjp6MOzGoWN72FdAhpc_RU8sQF0vY/s400/100_2912.JPG" width="400" /></a>A child stands up in his stroller, clasping a giant plastic crocodile. His parents stop, confer, and the child is off, waving his crocodile as he runs at the pigeons. Avian fortitude is not strong enough to withstand such an assault, and they scatter, every pigeon for himself. The wildly swinging crocodile hits another little boy on the head. He looks up, sad, wide-eyed, hands in his pockets as though he already knows this is what life has dealt him, and his parents lead him away in a language of their own, ignoring the crocodile-swinger’s parents’ effusive British apologies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Westminster Abbey. It is very, very large, with vaulted ceilings and archways of rippled stone and curves of marble. It is ornate and has many arabesque flourishes, but it is not as simply beautiful as the Domkirk in Oslo. It is smaller than one would believe could fit all the storied pomp and greatness of England’s history. Indeed, they are running out of space, and memorials climb up the walls like creeper vines.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9gT_Kd4p-rTk7qFRDrpuG7YAAhkviXskrRCBo5G8V23er1tSpkAHmW3fWgk7-5L5wl8v3VKAxrbKJk3bU-pKgGWTOrEGWQzZ7msdsYDmzf-PF4SFQiLkVcmSRh9M5gihcXxp4w3hwSw/s1600/100_2973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG9gT_Kd4p-rTk7qFRDrpuG7YAAhkviXskrRCBo5G8V23er1tSpkAHmW3fWgk7-5L5wl8v3VKAxrbKJk3bU-pKgGWTOrEGWQzZ7msdsYDmzf-PF4SFQiLkVcmSRh9M5gihcXxp4w3hwSw/s320/100_2973.JPG" width="320" /></a> Two priests confer near me. They say something about a group of young Asians who ought to remove their hats, and laugh. I can’t understand their accents very well, but I recoil from their laughter and move on, into the first tomb.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I write down the names on the plaques as I go. James Wolfe, Captain Cooke, King Edward (and his treasurer), Henry II, Eleanor of Castile, baronesses, admirals, the inventor of the penny postage system. Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Mary I, Henry VII, Oliver Cromwell (now in the RAF chapel with Frank Whittle, the inventor of the jet engine). Mary Queen of Scots has her own little place, and Prince George of Denmark—how did they get him? We push and jostle and then take elaborate steps back so that we can read the epitaphs we’ve just been walking on. As we pass the most important tombs, I wonder why the coffins are in cages? And why do the cages have doors? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am poking at the plush seats in the quire when a serene voice announces over a loudspeaker that Westminster Abbey is primarily a place for prayer, and so we pray on the hour. “Let us pray,” she says after a suitable pause of silence, “for countries in war and strife, such as Libya, Syria, and Bahrain.” She does not mention the US or the UK, who have troops out in large numbers fighting on other people’s soil. Theirs is not a war we wish to be reminded of. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEgnR3_cq2utElo2B2Ypfay1Eo06GLNd73VtAuL-8SRzYZOs8_Nxw6u6V_AEDD7khpUM7Wm4RcYE_5ZJ0gK-DOecOx2zew7PL4_EvojGefx8NRe86KsyuKy6wIcR8kvep9aaXixfFyIY/s1600/100_2952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEgnR3_cq2utElo2B2Ypfay1Eo06GLNd73VtAuL-8SRzYZOs8_Nxw6u6V_AEDD7khpUM7Wm4RcYE_5ZJ0gK-DOecOx2zew7PL4_EvojGefx8NRe86KsyuKy6wIcR8kvep9aaXixfFyIY/s400/100_2952.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The silence continues a bit, but, after all, these are only tourists, and they pop their gum and shift their souvenir bags and then continue on into the tombs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">St. Edward’s shrine is not open. It is too fragile. But through a gap in the stone, I can see a woman in black leaning in to an arched opening. Is she praying? I watch her for a second. For a moment too long. Just as I’m about to move on, she leans back out and moves to the next archway. She is cleaning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Northumberland vault has names listed from 1745 until 1988. Is it full now? Or can the next Duke of Northumberland come here and preview his grave?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A nice epitaph: “Here lies all that was mortal of John Paul Homans, Earl of Stafford.” Its optimism delights me. Then Anne of Cleves, Queen of England, and Jane Seymour, Richard II, Anne Neville. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, I reach the Poet’s Corner. Dryden faces me in hoary dignity. I turn, and see Longfellow’s bust. Nice try, Brits. He’s ours. On the floor lie the greats: Browning (a small inscription informs us that Elizabeth Barrett is buried elsewhere), Tennyson, TS Eliot, Gerard Manley Hopkins, James, Auden, George Eliot, DH Lawrence, Trollope, and Byron, all clustered together. Over our heads stained glass windows proclaim the names of the controversial: Wilde, Robert Herrick, Gaskell, Marlow, and Francis Burney. A bust of Mathew Arnold high above, perched on the top of a wall, seems a last-minute addition, but the inscription makes up for it: “let but the light appear and thy transfigured walls be touched with flame.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">An American near me asks her son, “no women?” George Eliot, I tell her. Ah, she answers. No knowing how many of these here were actually women. I smile, and let her walk on with the comforting thought that Tennyson, Trollope, and James were perhaps all secretly their sisters. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvTubA7M7nrJyfAfzy6WTWHavcwNGic4YoNeGcBiSwle62ni-MljCwVLhVlRcEvO6zUqJOBSL44a7IW3_Rb3fwgzzUZxi5CTKIeQol00x4JkN8fA6L4PixVjKCgZP65r3sel3atEOy4g/s1600/100_2944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvTubA7M7nrJyfAfzy6WTWHavcwNGic4YoNeGcBiSwle62ni-MljCwVLhVlRcEvO6zUqJOBSL44a7IW3_Rb3fwgzzUZxi5CTKIeQol00x4JkN8fA6L4PixVjKCgZP65r3sel3atEOy4g/s320/100_2944.JPG" width="240" /></a> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The memorial to Shakespeare has the Romantics clustered around him on the wall. I take a seat near him, Wordsworth, Coleridge. Shelley and Keats are connected by a wreath. On the floor are interred actors and actresses who played the Shakespearean greats. Lawrence Olivier, Peggy Ashcroft. On the wall above, Johnson, Southey, Austen, and the Brontes are memorialized. The Brontes marked in a row, and the words <i>with courage to endure</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> engraved under their names.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shall I ask the crowds, “do these people matter to you? Do their graves? Or the engraved letters, marking shallow indentations on the floor, in which we’re meant to inscribe their greatness? For they are not even buried here, most of them, are they?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the move from royalty of blood to royalty of letters, the monuments grew less impressive. Protect Austen behind bars, place the Brontes up high so the crowds cannot scrabble at them. But, after all, as I place my foot on TS Eliot I read his words beneath me—<i>the communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living</i><span style="font-style: normal;">—and am much more impressed with his monument than with all the ornate gold of king thingummy. The poets write their own epitaphs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwak6-n95865RRocr3LiZWpGBycecdzsT58VMuXZ49p-dmJYaCrTfA6viftVnyotwDPAtdLEiKt7U-kiQeMjoWN5RkRUS9WPOEq5EkxQacEycLBEDRiA9OfFRa0jcgZL8YrnJDw0Q79bQ/s1600/100_2926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwak6-n95865RRocr3LiZWpGBycecdzsT58VMuXZ49p-dmJYaCrTfA6viftVnyotwDPAtdLEiKt7U-kiQeMjoWN5RkRUS9WPOEq5EkxQacEycLBEDRiA9OfFRa0jcgZL8YrnJDw0Q79bQ/s400/100_2926.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buckingham Palace</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">It’s the hour again, and time for another loudspeaker prayer. This one is for “those across the world who turn house into home and people into family.” Nicely said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are walks high along the walls, here. Places where the archways open up. I imagine the nuns and priests mischievously peeking out, perhaps dropping water balloons on groups of tourists and then ducking again beneath the pillars. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You, young man with a tuft of hair sticking up and jaws chewing incessantly in your narrow, serious face, you are standing on Samuel Johnson. What Westminster Abbey really ought to have is strings of coffins, suspended and twirling above us, and we must uncomfortably rear our heads back to read the inscriptions on their bottoms as we look up to survey the greats. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, look—Kipling, Dickens, Hardy. Dickens didn’t want to be buried here. Three Chinese teenagers prop themselves up near me. One holds forth passionately on I don’t know what subject, but I feel sure I understand, anyways. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is very much a chapel-cum-museum. What a mixture of the things humanity venerates. This corner violates the commandment, “thou shalt have no other gods besides Me” most venally. Strange to put the very things a man could fall into worshipping, in a cathedral meant to focus only on God. The monuments to mankind and history’s greatest would make Ayn Rand happy, not the pope. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYIHalJJF3ND3ipkai7jxpigg1P8RQIU0gEKdjMO_i__pLE7uNrNShrqgXRgljWm1LGDzgk1hyphenhyphenTreg-jaTCnFmKpI5frBXNdUi7uE924ETRSEn761e91P9C_SPMXVkoZs7ZvORrhsQrY/s1600/100_2920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYIHalJJF3ND3ipkai7jxpigg1P8RQIU0gEKdjMO_i__pLE7uNrNShrqgXRgljWm1LGDzgk1hyphenhyphenTreg-jaTCnFmKpI5frBXNdUi7uE924ETRSEn761e91P9C_SPMXVkoZs7ZvORrhsQrY/s320/100_2920.JPG" width="320" /></a> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The composers are also grouped together. I pass Handel, with trumpets around him, and think of Judgment Day before I realize it’s merely meant to be pleasant music. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The American teenager who read with bored gusto, “William Shakespeare” in a final voice, as though there was nothing more to say about him, sits with his back to the monument The rest of his covey follow and speak of the important facts of their lives, and I fume until I remember that I too am sitting and no doubt have my back to someone important. Who? Must check. Oh, no, just some medieval friezes uncovered by restoration. That’s okay.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A little girl plops down beside me with an American sigh. (Did you think sighs don’t have accents? They do.). Her mother heckles their guide to know, are the ashes <i>really</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> under there? The girl sighs again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tired?” I ask. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_T2RmAeBXhJynwGGNTRaXPnDNvd5CyEBrJwGElfsF-KQSu509I1i9jAzTWwM4KYZeNBbbYtyVybxgMTGCuR2ZGE-xrZJ5pGUOagSEnYMQpxE2ZYz3KCYSiFz4fpYR7xrwqD_AX7LMeg/s1600/100_2922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj_T2RmAeBXhJynwGGNTRaXPnDNvd5CyEBrJwGElfsF-KQSu509I1i9jAzTWwM4KYZeNBbbYtyVybxgMTGCuR2ZGE-xrZJ5pGUOagSEnYMQpxE2ZYz3KCYSiFz4fpYR7xrwqD_AX7LMeg/s400/100_2922.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. James's Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes!” she answers. “We did the Tower of London before this.” Her little brother leans around her and adds, “that was looong.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But interesting!” she hastens to add, lest I think they’re not grateful for the chance to see London.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Who’s your favorite author here?” I ask. She pauses a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. There are so many.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shakespeare?” I suggest, nodding towards the statue of the man who’s rather awkwardly propping his elbow upon some heavy stone tomes, one leg casually crossing the other, model-style. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yes!” she says. “I love him!” Such enthusiasm is unexpected. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFbvllNNaR-I2CIwWsNbK4BuV7UW6QULISifCDputKm2-vPZ1L_38Oznh4fb3nuES68IMMc3A87bBdqGD486N9YLXXoStFwgmprZ9BH3xR5PYgNp1sautHEX61_LT-sxyNva0RvObYeI/s1600/100_2907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFbvllNNaR-I2CIwWsNbK4BuV7UW6QULISifCDputKm2-vPZ1L_38Oznh4fb3nuES68IMMc3A87bBdqGD486N9YLXXoStFwgmprZ9BH3xR5PYgNp1sautHEX61_LT-sxyNva0RvObYeI/s320/100_2907.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rescuing Humpty Dumpty in Covent Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Have you ever acted in one of his plays?” I try guessing at the source of her excitement. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, but I want to.” Definite wistfulness. Who is this kid?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How old are you?” I restrain myself from adding “anyways” to the end of it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ten.” What delightful precocity of enthusiasm. “Bye now,” she tells me as she obediently pulls up her brother and follows their inquisitive mother and poor guide over to Hardy. After a few minutes, I follow, and stumble upon Noel Coward, really buried in Jamaica. Beneath him, the phrase, <i>A talent to amuse</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Is that a terribly good, or simply terrible, epitaph? Well, I suppose only a few months ago I decided to make truth laugh, so perhaps we’ll leave it as positive. <o:p></o:p></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1t_kQV5HCAX9GATYd5LwvIzb5LbGCK6vWhdt75GVi_xXl0eSdvMQeYjRegnG_5Ph9uRu10vQzNnO3AX2agwuKM-lAAx4E5j1B2zA3fXshyphenhyphenLfZk3DzOexhKl7_NO1qqPVhImMeS6OQjk/s1600/100_2919.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1t_kQV5HCAX9GATYd5LwvIzb5LbGCK6vWhdt75GVi_xXl0eSdvMQeYjRegnG_5Ph9uRu10vQzNnO3AX2agwuKM-lAAx4E5j1B2zA3fXshyphenhyphenLfZk3DzOexhKl7_NO1qqPVhImMeS6OQjk/s320/100_2919.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite statue at Trafalgar Square</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Near the exit, by the refreshment stand, hangs the puzzling plaque: To the men and women of our race who labored to serve the people of the Sudan, this tablet was erected. 1960. Something in Latin beneath. Which race? Why “race”? What did they do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, again, a bit further on, “To commemorate all of the British race who served Malaya.” What is the “British race”? Does it now include plenty of Malaysians? As I drift down the cloisters, monuments to those who served the Crown in colonial territories, and in India, adorn the walls. Where America grovels apologetically for its cultural imperialism and the Macdonalds rearing their heads throughout the world, England celebrates its conquests in marble. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The stones beneath my feet are mostly rubbed out. I’m sure they must have been recorded somewhere, written down, to prove the truth of “Not marble nor these gilded monuments.” Nothing impresses one of mortality as the shuffling of feet that rub names off of this mortal coil.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tomb of the Unknown Soldier is ringed in flowers. He’s from France, in 1920. What a risk they take in entombing someone here in the Cathedral. What if he were really a German in disguise? Or French? Or Jewish? A Communist? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gdnjmTscJ6PA6SySY-HJQ4T7ofH9mgHmObdM5pONOxoFc-71bEbdOD95NDVo-8H4uxPLNhunoGa0kgUipRIiBSObhAkf9S7o6I_7ASINdzEn0V4u8j2DChxps_2L1sGnBFq31LtMp7s/s1600/100_2981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gdnjmTscJ6PA6SySY-HJQ4T7ofH9mgHmObdM5pONOxoFc-71bEbdOD95NDVo-8H4uxPLNhunoGa0kgUipRIiBSObhAkf9S7o6I_7ASINdzEn0V4u8j2DChxps_2L1sGnBFq31LtMp7s/s400/100_2981.JPG" width="400" /></a>The prime ministers chill to the left, but Churchill has prime real estate, front and center. Oddly, FDR sits on the wall near the exit, as well. I leave the Abbey as the hour tolls again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk down to Picadilly Circus and up Regent Street to Oxford Circus, where I’m meeting Katie. The “circus” bits are aptly named. Such masses of humanity crushed together. We play in Hamley’s, a famous British toy store, and then go to St. Martin on the Fields, a church right on Trafalgar Square with a bar in its basement. Tonight is Jazz in the crypt, and we sit with two Finnish guys listening to a blend of flamenco and African beat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLu4o_1Asp0X8yRbfi5-XJXoI90NjS5pYhFPyugwNzC93AgDZiMJixvwR9RF0pYjcXyAbl8vh3LD_kgi-dqwiQH2vvXyqF4lNdgc57elRh8LyEa3ZwHaZOb3TnAksScpjT8-fUWmIx0fE/s1600/100_2988.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLu4o_1Asp0X8yRbfi5-XJXoI90NjS5pYhFPyugwNzC93AgDZiMJixvwR9RF0pYjcXyAbl8vh3LD_kgi-dqwiQH2vvXyqF4lNdgc57elRh8LyEa3ZwHaZOb3TnAksScpjT8-fUWmIx0fE/s400/100_2988.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thursday I circled Hyde Park, strolling beside the Serpentine in quest of the fairies in Kensington Gardens. It was not how I’d imagined it as a child. Where were the flowers abuzz with bees and fairies? Where were the children cleverly crawling out of their prams? Still, the fountains were properly perfect, and I tucked the rest away into my imagination for safekeeping.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> As I walked past Buckingham Palace, I noticed I buzz. It was nearly 11:30, time for the changing of the guard. Though thoroughly unimpressed by grown men who can walk in step, I decided to stay and see it as I was on the spot. I’m glad I did; though the changing of the guard never really happened, I struck up an interesting conversation with an American mom and her kids, and a New Zealand couple on sabbatical. All of this speaking with Americans reminds me how I miss the easy assurance of the American child, the confident intelligence with which they reply to queries. They are raised proudly, curiously, a little brash yet with sensitivity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLhG6pLeGgRB3pSHTso040ZAMQN-f_EriGuMfXqyAuWa3-sPyA6l_ZtWlAzv47RcAgLyXYOkxFSBiUmFMcxcdM1SYw-kdGoQWEYzEFEXy0UnUwWGS3bpzQvl8MbSJp1hx4gC9_mSKyvQ/s1600/100_2990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLhG6pLeGgRB3pSHTso040ZAMQN-f_EriGuMfXqyAuWa3-sPyA6l_ZtWlAzv47RcAgLyXYOkxFSBiUmFMcxcdM1SYw-kdGoQWEYzEFEXy0UnUwWGS3bpzQvl8MbSJp1hx4gC9_mSKyvQ/s320/100_2990.JPG" width="320" /></a>I had some time, so I ducked into the National Portrait Gallery for a bit. Most of the faces you didn’t expect to look like <i>that</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Fletcher (Beaumont’s buddy), TS Eliot (such a hooked beak of a schnozz!), but Beatrix Potter and Lytton Strachey appeared exactly as expected. The docent marched around, her heels clicking out a metronome so the tourists know what pace to keep to as they tread the rounds between faces. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I met Sara in Leicester Square, where we gobbled down Haagen Daas and then went to see the show of <i>The King’s Speech</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It was very good, though rather too like the movie to be properly new. Good to see a British play in London—everything here is so royal, even the thinkers and writers and artists are recognized by royalty. All must have the stamp of the monarchy upon it. Then we drifted about Covent Garden, watching street performers and following Sara’s fashion sense into the shops. </span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfrDUhHKEZgi5w9T3LEBCgz1_cNQBGTwNcG-mGotFbqiiBcPGfJiNn5BBI0kqfxZbmd80yL2hM4Rwl2LHHWmhYBLGP7xbFKkenrrbdqKUg5nR5x85t_3_Z9Z1v4QPkF28v2NS8IKHs8g/s1600/100_2994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfrDUhHKEZgi5w9T3LEBCgz1_cNQBGTwNcG-mGotFbqiiBcPGfJiNn5BBI0kqfxZbmd80yL2hM4Rwl2LHHWmhYBLGP7xbFKkenrrbdqKUg5nR5x85t_3_Z9Z1v4QPkF28v2NS8IKHs8g/s320/100_2994.JPG" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Covent Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">On Friday I walked down the Thames walk in the early morning. I stopped opposite the Tower Bridge, leaning over the parapet and giving myself time to imagine Shakespearean characters and Elizabethan intrigues (what was that bloke’s name? Thomas of Essex? Wessex?) being dragged down the road into the Tower. A long way from Buckingham Palace and Westminster, through jeering crowds and leering drunks. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two Spanish women approach and in rapid streams of Spanish ask me to take a picture. In equally quick English I ask whether they want bridge or tower or both in it. We speak quickly, neither understanding each other’s words but understanding completely and more of our selves shared than if we were to slowly halt and point. No need, then, to hesitate and translate—just let the full brunt of one’s self be felt and all will be understood.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDH1QzTDBqJdYfa7DaWgbf0QWMBVNFp-VFJjSeXfy8WQ_kOqm33tK8l-1jzgePshueQTdWIX6LEwHWnCpidjyHI1QIRRdp07IKiFIkWOpZ_4CSVW_SHiM7amn1SwSuSsHMc5T0_UAMYE/s1600/100_2997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDH1QzTDBqJdYfa7DaWgbf0QWMBVNFp-VFJjSeXfy8WQ_kOqm33tK8l-1jzgePshueQTdWIX6LEwHWnCpidjyHI1QIRRdp07IKiFIkWOpZ_4CSVW_SHiM7amn1SwSuSsHMc5T0_UAMYE/s400/100_2997.JPG" width="400" /></a>Behind me, a young man sketches the Tower and Thames. I wonder if I will be part of the drawing. The walk along the Thames has grown much busier over this half hour. It is Good Friday, and sunny morning, too. I follow the walk, past Southwark Cathedral, through an open-air market, and hit the Globe. It is... shiny. I snap a quick photo and hurry on. It is not in any way important. Not like the Thames, most real, floating beside me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtDRK_5AvCsO9tIXcCrcJGVyK_rbC9w3uTICbnORQBCi-1rxPPU69GQSGdq1Cat5_xO6FvExjCvR1VMAmFf0l_JR5Dj9QcfniInvyuTH3_Gy5QOkVpuVANJQBXPaAjvAUUawDx_kg5Eo/s1600/100_3004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWtDRK_5AvCsO9tIXcCrcJGVyK_rbC9w3uTICbnORQBCi-1rxPPU69GQSGdq1Cat5_xO6FvExjCvR1VMAmFf0l_JR5Dj9QcfniInvyuTH3_Gy5QOkVpuVANJQBXPaAjvAUUawDx_kg5Eo/s320/100_3004.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple Bar from Dickens!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The Tate Modern is just as modern as the Globe Theater. I’m interested in some of the photography, in a mirror titled “Untitled Painting” that an older lady, unaware of the significance, stops to smooth her hair before, and in a heavily ironic short on how art is destroyed by business. Getting into the spirit of it—were I to place a piece of artwork here, it would be a live stream of the visitors to the museum that visitors could adjust, fast forward, rewind, replay. When left alone, it would return to real time. I’d call it “Memory.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I cross the bridge to the North Bank. As I pass St. Paul’s Cathedral, a woman rushes up to me. “Do you know what time it starts?” I look at her blankly. “Aren’t you here for the service?” Do I look that much like a British Christian? Or hopefully this year has simply given me an air of comfort and assurance, no matter what city I happen to be in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH19pI5iUvLaNbn0kxItFRza8okln4V8fRChMSf-p7oysqkQ5Ynj5cIV0ZtWz-q-wzDcGDFaujP954qE5DWw-1Yw1D0p2wlyv7r4eom3akqsLBRztAf8X9yWjvlBsAMX_We__CI_J4868/s1600/100_3012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH19pI5iUvLaNbn0kxItFRza8okln4V8fRChMSf-p7oysqkQ5Ynj5cIV0ZtWz-q-wzDcGDFaujP954qE5DWw-1Yw1D0p2wlyv7r4eom3akqsLBRztAf8X9yWjvlBsAMX_We__CI_J4868/s320/100_3012.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Stuart Mill himself</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I wander through the streets again, accidentally stumbling on small treasures like Dr. Samuel Johnson’s house and a string of little parks beside the Thames. The London I’ve known hitherto has difficulty mapping onto this city. A plethora of checking lies before me. Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray... I must re-read them all. Re-envision. Now I’ve dwelt in the space, measured it out by footstep and shadow-slant. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I buy a box of strawberries and, marching past the Good Friday service on jumbo-tron in Trafalgar Square, see the National Gallery with intent, now. Then I wander into Bloomsbury. I sit on a bench in Bedford Square, eat my strawberries and squint at the history-heavy blue dots beside doors all around me. I wish I had time to find Gordon Square and Woolf, but instead I go back into the British Museum to fume that the Reading Room is closed off. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I spent the sedarim with Jordana, my roommate and chavruta from Orot, and her husband, Yair (doing a masters in nationalism, how fascinating), and her rollicking, outrageous, fun family. They all spoke at the same time, over and through and to each other, but when Danya, the youngest, or grandma, the oldest, tried to speak, a miraculous hush would settle and they’d be heard out before the chaos resumed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKq1xU9C-luJ429IhY5V7TDHEdANifhSlEYuidmVz0A5GDUi0UxowmRInDc0E6zdLxf4D9Lk529WfGc485Q2XVQue6sjBst2TTNPjK6jqD4wjJRn5b_AXT-QRbOe1Rd1ueeoensC5mkbQ/s1600/100_2880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKq1xU9C-luJ429IhY5V7TDHEdANifhSlEYuidmVz0A5GDUi0UxowmRInDc0E6zdLxf4D9Lk529WfGc485Q2XVQue6sjBst2TTNPjK6jqD4wjJRn5b_AXT-QRbOe1Rd1ueeoensC5mkbQ/s320/100_2880.JPG" width="320" /></a>The second was a 17-person seder, complete with humorous father asking everyone questions and mother stuffing us with a truly amazing quantity of dishes. An American friend of Yair’s came and after five minutes of speaking to her my mouth began to hurt. American women smile too much. I consciously decided to tone it down, and brought our enthusiastic politeness into calmer waters. The rest of pesach, we shul-hopped in the mornings, and napped and played rounds of board games in the afternoons. Times like that when I truly appreciate the beauty of a Jewish community and miss my own family.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After chag we ran out in a crazy rush to see <i>Titanic </i><span style="font-style: normal;">in 3D. I’d never seen it in the theater before, and, well, wow. Only problem with Titanic in 3D—it’s annoying to keep pushing up your glasses so you can brush tears away. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhBvG8LqE0KepeJR92UyrHNfwr7hZSUEpInrcrjwLAs7JOyfvO6LuWe37cV6G7cnhs0iI5W99FB9e9jjhXLIqTh4wbqupnA1Nt0PLcRc0oXmh0HMF3Ko1mQuhkHHTiKEHD5VSrHkNWVU/s1600/100_3017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZhBvG8LqE0KepeJR92UyrHNfwr7hZSUEpInrcrjwLAs7JOyfvO6LuWe37cV6G7cnhs0iI5W99FB9e9jjhXLIqTh4wbqupnA1Nt0PLcRc0oXmh0HMF3Ko1mQuhkHHTiKEHD5VSrHkNWVU/s320/100_3017.JPG" width="320" /></a>Monday Jordana’s family had a day of pesach family fun planned, and let me tag along on a tour of the Jewish East End (betcha didn’t know that Brick Lane used to be mostly shmattah shops) and the Olympic Park, which we all agreed was going to be a colossal and showy waste of money. That night, we went out for kosher l’pesach fish n’ chips! Truly, what more could you want from culinary London? (I had Cadbury's pre-Pesach. Really got it all). </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNgE8Yn1oqSpDqKwljmrlB0Z3WlyNyIc_zMPThVV6_sAovz1R1gRz0GUnT-T2DcSjrTsz03ti0-NcCwY0rhgcVasjoBX4hV62cIQ3iaSuHPpVrKXV-K3PrpkLDxpvFG0gsYhZJ5IF7Q8/s1600/100_3018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNgE8Yn1oqSpDqKwljmrlB0Z3WlyNyIc_zMPThVV6_sAovz1R1gRz0GUnT-T2DcSjrTsz03ti0-NcCwY0rhgcVasjoBX4hV62cIQ3iaSuHPpVrKXV-K3PrpkLDxpvFG0gsYhZJ5IF7Q8/s400/100_3018.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Tuesday Jord and I headed to the Tower of London for a proper bit of history. We saw the Crown Jewels, royal menagerie (not in real form), and ancient grafitti that mostly consisted of prisoners’ trust in God. Very Count of Monte Cristo. Then, back to Heathrow airport, and home to Bergen for a day before Oslo for the rest of pesach. Goodbye, London. I’ll be seeing you again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-32176505146329498022012-04-02T12:42:00.001+02:002012-04-02T12:43:10.070+02:00July and January Clash<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was settled, the expedition bound to take place. The wonder to which he had looked forward, for years and years it seemed, was, after a night’s darkness and a day’s sail, within touch. Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep this feeling separate from that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows cloud what is actually at hand, since to such people even in earliest childhood any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crystallize and transfix the moment up which its gloom or radiance rests...</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I fly to London. I have seen it before, many times, in lugubrious Dickensian gloom and Woolfian larks and charged with inquisitive Doyleian energy, but this will be my first chance to observe it firsthand, my own footsteps the echoes I hear on the pavement. I am, well, happy. I have endowed the picture of a policeman, on the newspaper I’m using to cover my table before pesach, with heavenly bliss. It is fringed with joy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This past week has been a whirlwind. My favorite student quotes of the week:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-xp8KgEpSUlXxJTD8yl3z6XdAvbLyd9ucwYzmS4QvrUTzDsZLJ1ly5svzS5oPjbRAKI_2ML1fX952UOzwyO6UXOCMdnOYE4m1sOGllGcKBBHMkHQZeemIyVq1uZA_nR2W-PG16GXuY4/s1600/542271_10150664201309652_539374651_9494186_965047972_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-xp8KgEpSUlXxJTD8yl3z6XdAvbLyd9ucwYzmS4QvrUTzDsZLJ1ly5svzS5oPjbRAKI_2ML1fX952UOzwyO6UXOCMdnOYE4m1sOGllGcKBBHMkHQZeemIyVq1uZA_nR2W-PG16GXuY4/s400/542271_10150664201309652_539374651_9494186_965047972_n.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, Kyle set his camera on self-timer and came leaping across the mud. He </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">posed right in front of Ruth, which is why I'm cracking up in this picture.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“After he had constiplated for a while, he responded with a different answer.” I had to pretend to constiplate my bellybutton so she couldn’t see the grin crack across my face.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This was a time when people were abdonding their children in large numbers.” Those poor, abdonded children!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“He practices Muslim.” Just like I practice piano? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not so much funny as eeeek, but funny because the sweetest girl in the world, who would be horrified if she understood her own meaning, wrote it: “Then came the third wave, when white women discovered that there was a whole group of colored women oppressed. Now white women, yellow women, and black women work together in feminism.” Yes. Yes we do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbrMvKHEscX8WcTwfaO5zniqNhRmp_toRnUOPTdXvCUb3m9W6K4HAUaBpLWYGidDgPeKvap8xl88nUiQ8DZF_LqICoaWmvwN54Pci37bBPFs4W7NyLNWzF_0CJHzfV7O9EvcnaYTBoEk/s1600/100_2875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbrMvKHEscX8WcTwfaO5zniqNhRmp_toRnUOPTdXvCUb3m9W6K4HAUaBpLWYGidDgPeKvap8xl88nUiQ8DZF_LqICoaWmvwN54Pci37bBPFs4W7NyLNWzF_0CJHzfV7O9EvcnaYTBoEk/s320/100_2875.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At the Bergen Museum</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To offset the giggle-prompters are those earth-shattering moments when I’m astounded by the characters of my students. One of the adults started talking to me about his life during break on Thursday. He volunteers to speak to and encourage drug addicts going through rehab, and wants eventually to open up a center of his own. As I looked at the huge tattoos writhing down the muscles of his arm, his blunt broken nose, his shaven head, and listen to him speak ever so gently about how he wishes to take his own experiences and use them to help others, I’m bowled over by his honesty. This man is not pretending to be anything he isn’t. I ask him, and he says he wouldn’t change anything. His experiences brought him to this point. I think of the tremendous strength that lies hidden behind all his muscles, un-guessed-at by most observers, and when I stand up to teach again, it’s with a touch more deference than before.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My high schoolers had a lesson on multiculturalism. I tried to complicate identity for them. To explain that nationality and ethnicity aren’t monolithic. Americans worried about Mexican cultural invasion make up a myth of American identity that hearkens back to England, but England just declared tikki masala an official dish. Can American identity in fact mean purely openness and immigrant status? What the hell is identity, anyways? I got into it with one of my favorite adult students, an agnostic philosopher of Sami descent. He was all for universalism, until I suggested that maybe the lack of identity in Norway is what precipitates their own inability to understand other people’s identities. And that identity is what gives rise to culture, art, values... pretty much everything worth having. He thought about it for awhile, and then shot up at the end of class to offer Hegelian synthesis as a solution. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S4MFkgT7OQYbkYX-ZzE7PsbmskXoRwqTT0xbHOzjPpH2r5tk2IN5TDxNzOBmAeUkkVcFbUXAcAb8gSwejHdW6TCtMxs3IjtskvVbJadOkepx5WVLMZ7ZhLpU50LjemU1TJgh2fUkaEg/s1600/537854_10150613055310356_729300355_9386798_790602746_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S4MFkgT7OQYbkYX-ZzE7PsbmskXoRwqTT0xbHOzjPpH2r5tk2IN5TDxNzOBmAeUkkVcFbUXAcAb8gSwejHdW6TCtMxs3IjtskvVbJadOkepx5WVLMZ7ZhLpU50LjemU1TJgh2fUkaEg/s400/537854_10150613055310356_729300355_9386798_790602746_n.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Skål!</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weekend was lovely. On shabbat, Ruth and Kyle came by to rescue me from my apartment. They’re good friends. From Friday until today, Bergen has been January clashing with July. Right now the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and snow is whirling down in thick spirals. The mountains are both snow-capped and lushly, Springily, green. Ruth and Kyle and I went on a beautiful hike up Landås and over to Ulriken. Ruth had a “cocktail party” because she bought some good gin in the duty-free on the way back from Berlin, and we played Norwegian card games with more or less success. I’m really going to miss these guys when I go back Stateside.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay! That’s all until I return from London! Halvor, one of my high schoolers, asked if I’d bring him back something back from Harrods. Gotta love that kind of chutzpah. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Har en godt paske and Pesach kasher v’sameach l’kulam!</div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-36338649310915303692012-03-29T08:15:00.001+02:002012-03-29T08:15:51.042+02:00Language Cannot Do Everything<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Adrienne Rich, feminist and poet, died today. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CuhZP9g3k8XNBGrrqS-ylMe7xWGd4h8GI9u1kHvMy8QSKa1_cHWR50pfCcmhxpt4VFR5pKcENCJdG8G2QkIeD33wZrZW02Ht8SOPNjal__A1Dj0NXgUiaP_2pImFyIjbAGF_rF3btzE/s1600/032812_AdrienneRich_DNGMA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CuhZP9g3k8XNBGrrqS-ylMe7xWGd4h8GI9u1kHvMy8QSKa1_cHWR50pfCcmhxpt4VFR5pKcENCJdG8G2QkIeD33wZrZW02Ht8SOPNjal__A1Dj0NXgUiaP_2pImFyIjbAGF_rF3btzE/s320/032812_AdrienneRich_DNGMA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d; font-size: 19px; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d; font-size: 19px; font-weight: bold;">From an Atlas of the Difficult World</span><br />
<div style="min-height: 515px;"><div class="KonaBody"><div style="font-size: 1.167em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 21px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px;">I know you are reading this poem<br />
late, before leaving your office<br />
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window<br />
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet<br />
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem<br />
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean<br />
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven<br />
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.<br />
I know you are reading this poem<br />
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear<br />
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed<br />
and the open valise speaks of flight<br />
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem<br />
as the underground train loses momentum and before running<br />
up the stairs<br />
toward a new kind of love<br />
your life has never allowed.<br />
I know you are reading this poem by the light<br />
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide<br />
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.<br />
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room<br />
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.<br />
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light<br />
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,<br />
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know<br />
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick<br />
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on<br />
because even the alphabet is precious.<br />
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove<br />
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your<br />
hand<br />
because life is short and you too are thirsty.<br />
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language<br />
guessing at some words while others keep you reading<br />
and I want to know which words they are.<br />
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn<br />
between bitterness and hope<br />
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.<br />
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else<br />
left to read<br />
there where you have landed, stripped as you are. </div></div></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-17182898109310637822012-03-28T15:59:00.000+02:002012-03-28T15:59:28.195+02:00I am the Only Jew<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">This week, Fantoft decided to add security on all its student apartment buildings with a magnetic tag that opens up the outer doors. Fine. Except for shabbat. When I’ll be stuck inside for 25 hours, chewing on the walls and banging my head against the ceiling. Or else locked outside, waiting with bovine patience for someone to come along and open the door for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">An hour after I received the email, I was standing in front of the SiB desk, facing a girl whose jaw actually dropped open as I began to explain to her that I am a religious Jew who doesn’t use electricity for a 24-hour period every week. She smiled and nodded in sympathetic bewilderment, gave me an email to write to, and beckoned me over to the woman in charge. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well it’s fine. This doesn’t use electricity. It’s magnetic,” she said dismissively. “Write to the man who is in charge. NEXT!” Before I could point out to her that it probably does use electricity to open that door, and that it most certainly triggers a light, I was brushed out of the way. I decided to email the guy and see what he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wednesday, without having received a response, and Friday looming ever closer, I returned to SiB to get the man in charge’s phone number. The same woman was there. Just as helpful as before.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t think there’ll be anything we can do for you.” And she was happy about it, for some reason. “You’ll have to call a friend to let you in on weekends,” she advised. No dice, lady—I can’t use a phone, either. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Organize a time to meet them and have them let you in.” Every week, for the next three months? Seriously? Because I will want to go outside at the same time every week, and I have a friend that slavishly without a life that they can do that?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where is this—where is your... meeting?” Could you drip more disdain into that last word? No, lady, this is not a religious meeting, this is my apartment that I won’t be able to get in and out of for an entire day every week. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, look, what do you do in your apartment during that time? Do you sit in the dark? Or do you use lights?” She was so triumphant in her mistaken proof of my inconsistency, it took me slightly aback. Then I leaned calmly towards her over the counter, and spoke in measured tones.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You smug toad. You bask in your ignorance. You’re actually rejoicing in your mono-cultural blindness. You don’t want to know, you want to catch me out in a flaw. What possible reason has your warped mind come up with for imagining that I wouldn’t prefer to use the simple magnetic door-opener? You think you can catechize me on Judaism? Well, you complacent scumbag, I’ve spent a year and a half in the hellish cognitive dissonance of midrasha, and I’ve attended my requisite twelve years of forced fanaticism by Ner Yisrael FOF’s at the local day school, and I’ve read Potok and wept, and I don’t need you to make me cringe in question. You dare try to prove me inconsistent in religion when the dat’lash wedge on my pie chart of friends gets fatter every year? You think it’s a choice I’m making to keep shabbat? Sure it is—one on the same level as the one you make when you decide not to rob a grocery store. You think the choices I make every day about what I wear, eat, say, should all pass through your court so you can declare me religious or not? When I already judge myself incessantly? It’s fun for you to bait me? Walk off a cliff, bitch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, I didn’t. I opened my mouth, and closed it. Because I remembered, in time, that I am the only Jew this lady ever knows she’s met. And more important than my ire, more important than my being locked indoors for 25 hours every week, even equally important with keeping shabbat, is the kiddush Hashem that I signed on for this year when I decided to be the only observant Jew in this city. So I can’t say anything that I’d like to, even though with my temper I'm the last person on earth that should have to represent anyone (forgodsake, I can't even stay silent enough to keep from posting this on my blog!). I can only try to keep my hands from trembling as I smile and respond that no, I don’t turn on lights on shabbat, I leave on one small one to read by the whole weekend long. And then, still trembling, I walked out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know that mine is utterly ridiculous rage. What, so this is the first time my coddled existence has come up against a lack of sympathy with my religious needs? Yes, good morning, little Miss Innocent, outside of America’s embrace of diversity and Israel’s Jewish refuge, people don’t give a flying fuck about facilitating religious observance. Do you want coffee with that newsflash? And yet I’m angry at that woman, angry at her twenty-first century Western joy that in an increasingly automated world it’s hard for Neanderthals like me to maintain our religious practice. But I left with my cool intact, rubbing my mind furiously against the internal insistence that I cannot allow a passionate intensity to take over.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The ceremony of innocence is drowned; </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The best lack all conviction, while the worst</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Are full of passionate intensity.</div><!--EndFragment-->HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-49620065313532061062012-03-27T23:37:00.002+02:002012-03-28T11:29:20.576+02:00Norway: Kid-Tested and Mother-Approved<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mhFF1rqwi6dRHpYVY6x6SlZSu_bdHNyTIrH8B7uZgSL65hTLxhhvSzXLudZZY04yXpAtbVI7HbhyI0vVTtspygI25oQs_cHY00Qn5vdU0_PLuAFSH6u841tZV4n3busRjr-lwM8veak/s1600/100_3065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mhFF1rqwi6dRHpYVY6x6SlZSu_bdHNyTIrH8B7uZgSL65hTLxhhvSzXLudZZY04yXpAtbVI7HbhyI0vVTtspygI25oQs_cHY00Qn5vdU0_PLuAFSH6u841tZV4n3busRjr-lwM8veak/s400/100_3065.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The adorable apartment they rented</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My parents visited me in Bergen last week. Since my dad’s the main reason I write this blog (it’s the first time since I left home six years ago that he actually has a clue of what’s going on in my life) I’m not going to fill you in on the trip in too much detail. Just that I had the most beautiful time showing my parents my life in Norway, tramping along the picturesque streets of Bergen, appreciating the cuteness of Norwegian babies and the gorgeousness of Norwegian men with my mom, and kicking back in our lovely old apartment with a 360 degree view of the fjord and Bergen sentrum.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first night, I took them to Godt Brød. As I joked around with the cashier, showing off my Norwegian for my mom, his fellow worker behind the counter came over. The first guy beckoned to me. “Look, she’s an American, speaking Norwegian.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, and her name is Hannah.” It was Anita’s son, Evan. Nothing emphasizes Bergen’s tiny size like running into people you know every few hours. Then we bumped into one of my students at Rimi, and the impression was complete. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASlFvLiqjyMSsV7r3qB8wRELf5koAC8Gl6B8587hYNiwI1_ttS4zPdK3d_YFwU-4juLeYPxyBsx3jsdXsnE7ZaatvR4NGGvtZ7um28mA5W-Zx9cYXTb7SChJAEhsoO8jP7cg9DzNSfbM/s1600/100_3088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASlFvLiqjyMSsV7r3qB8wRELf5koAC8Gl6B8587hYNiwI1_ttS4zPdK3d_YFwU-4juLeYPxyBsx3jsdXsnE7ZaatvR4NGGvtZ7um28mA5W-Zx9cYXTb7SChJAEhsoO8jP7cg9DzNSfbM/s400/100_3088.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We went to Café Opera with Anita, and I had that shocking feeling you get when two worlds collide. You see, Anita only met me this year, and sees mature competence, confidence, and creativity (I hope!), where my parents see an adorable yet precocious six-year-old. I didn’t realize how much I regress around my parents until thrust into the presence of a third party, where my character played a funny tug-of-war between its mature self and the kid my parents see me as. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Laundry list: We saw Gamlehaugen, the Fantoft Stavkirk, Kunst gallery, Hanseatisk Museum, Bryggen, the Bergen Domkirk, Fløyen... while hiking up Fløyen, exclaiming at the beauty of its lushly green trails, we passed a passel of men in their seventies, sturdily hiking up. They enjoyed our presence, offering the tidbit that Prince Charles and Camilla had been up on Fløyen only yesterday—apparently all English speakers should care about British royalty. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I bought kaviar in a tube for my Abba, and brunøst for my Ima. Easy enough to know what they’d each like. They, in turn, brought me Trader Joe's in a suitcase. Sometimes food is love. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuK0qHLZr7_pKz6gMteu13ZDIfbduW6KCopHkd6FmTsC8_mamNkbMR32CQtmsi1Mz8yw-3AxYF3tCqGL1GGyVWikEfHooC0qWvRCfYk4VNa3KK1qaxnV3ApXH-oUScgrBrZmmnLyW8l4/s1600/100_3067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuK0qHLZr7_pKz6gMteu13ZDIfbduW6KCopHkd6FmTsC8_mamNkbMR32CQtmsi1Mz8yw-3AxYF3tCqGL1GGyVWikEfHooC0qWvRCfYk4VNa3KK1qaxnV3ApXH-oUScgrBrZmmnLyW8l4/s320/100_3067.JPG" width="320" /></a>Friday we took the train into Oslo, passing the breathtaking views of fjord and fjell that astound every passenger. One of the best parts of the weekend was introducing my parents to the Oslo Jewish community—to the shlichot who have so comfortably hosted me again and again, and the Norwegian-Israelis who have so warmly welcomed me into the fold. Shabbat dinner at the shlichot we ate with a Tunisian man who had lived in Israel then fallen in love with a Norwegian, and his two sons. The conversation surged through three languages as per usual (only very briefly did my mother and the man speak French, so it really doesn’t count). At one point, discussing the chazzan, my mother asked what he does the rest of the week. Inbar’s answer: “byom shani, hu oseh havdalah bagan.” Hehehe. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sunday morning my Abba left for the airport. My Ima and I went down to Oslo harbor for tickets on the ferry. It was only when buying them that we realized daylight savings had happened and we’d missed an hour! Luckily, my Abba left in plenty of time, and Oslo airport is small.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQr3f_tGsEezj7kdR0Jy2MdFyzGAm4c6W1aNupHVpWf7GEA-W6IvG8e6upUlH-1dRuf1KT622LCqaFqbmf-Um0svX9SiGa4m7kZ8MB_Kq20-ZPbShlCzt-hr-NYAVKsT1tSw6h8TQLwqs/s1600/100_3081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQr3f_tGsEezj7kdR0Jy2MdFyzGAm4c6W1aNupHVpWf7GEA-W6IvG8e6upUlH-1dRuf1KT622LCqaFqbmf-Um0svX9SiGa4m7kZ8MB_Kq20-ZPbShlCzt-hr-NYAVKsT1tSw6h8TQLwqs/s320/100_3081.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outside of 5 Draggefjelltrappen</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">We took the ferry to the new opera house, moved through the Munch museum (vastly prefer “Anxiety” and “Despair” to “The Scream,” now that I’ve seen all three, and a silent landscape of snow-heaped firs to those—who knew Munch could paint calm solitude as well as feverish modern angst?), speedwalked the Botanical gardens, and sat for a pleasant while on the Bygdøy shore watching the kayakers after circling around the open-air model Viking village. On the ferry ride back, a father placed his toddler son on the railing near us. The boy was so deliciously cute, waving and calling “mama” to his mother on the lower deck. When he began to stomp on the captain’s roof, the father gently told him, “ikke bang bang.” What a sweet kid, and how perfectly did it exemplify the Norwegian family dynamic. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeRFtRfsQTJS-ej6b_ktrSFJ801RmjrfEbDiIuxbWwoSdUPzbXd1p5XM5ab3OZmc4u2WFExuy6b-0_8kaWg8QMi6XUiYWZyJpl8bMa007gGY85kqam6JQqxPbSxgocfGpNPUQOfQES6I/s1600/100_3076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeRFtRfsQTJS-ej6b_ktrSFJ801RmjrfEbDiIuxbWwoSdUPzbXd1p5XM5ab3OZmc4u2WFExuy6b-0_8kaWg8QMi6XUiYWZyJpl8bMa007gGY85kqam6JQqxPbSxgocfGpNPUQOfQES6I/s320/100_3076.JPG" width="240" /></a> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My parents gone, I’ve been feverishly rushing to catch up with everything. Though this morning I did take off for a gorgeous hike up Landås and across to Ulriken. The mud drying in the sun smelled like Monongahela National Park in West Virginia. Vaguely sweet and clean, with the hum of bees accompanying it even when no bees flew. I kept sniffing and thinking of berries. Back home I launched into my frenzy of work: I have to clean for pesach, pack for London, plan my trip to Copenhagen in May, catch up and get ahead on grading and class preparation for the next few weeks, and see the friends I haven’t seen for the past week and won’t see for the next two. Life is deliciously full of good things.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready for rain</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_NDNHXxI4SZvKXDxz9L5EbPU1aeD-hqX2yxvD79nY5xz7D49mKU0Fu12f-j45znPwbak3_msI_e86-DA_PL3gyCtEW0IaxC_5Xn7HKB_Clowh_-vGBORd1hCxTopWRLG9kFnll2Q1O4/s1600/100_3070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_NDNHXxI4SZvKXDxz9L5EbPU1aeD-hqX2yxvD79nY5xz7D49mKU0Fu12f-j45znPwbak3_msI_e86-DA_PL3gyCtEW0IaxC_5Xn7HKB_Clowh_-vGBORd1hCxTopWRLG9kFnll2Q1O4/s640/100_3070.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4MRMxCs8oLerVaBxZJNfxYFkouRVuHycRP11y5VchSmlP7eGsIN0LUugPrlwgxFiF9XqxJCSkVI_i0T9ab0soUKTEQMSv2I8Dr5gpPUq2RFTkLbFTndtv8EBmgI3kvbbUBgk0H94qV8/s1600/100_3087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4MRMxCs8oLerVaBxZJNfxYFkouRVuHycRP11y5VchSmlP7eGsIN0LUugPrlwgxFiF9XqxJCSkVI_i0T9ab0soUKTEQMSv2I8Dr5gpPUq2RFTkLbFTndtv8EBmgI3kvbbUBgk0H94qV8/s640/100_3087.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alas, the view atop Fløyen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlA9jF2WY0uYlH4cu0gJYnj0LSEdXjm1IRBa8WLbNOiCvy1vHHhuMSij7daNFe-N31SW7aZpV_OC8uXu7TeoILXPSgCL9AH3XEzSTl3jmO2Ih4dCq3utWlRxx_kkTNGL5e1tin2uKQxqc/s1600/100_2842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlA9jF2WY0uYlH4cu0gJYnj0LSEdXjm1IRBa8WLbNOiCvy1vHHhuMSij7daNFe-N31SW7aZpV_OC8uXu7TeoILXPSgCL9AH3XEzSTl3jmO2Ih4dCq3utWlRxx_kkTNGL5e1tin2uKQxqc/s640/100_2842.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the top of Karl Johan. Check out that hat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLYuscsjap85FfFiTuG33yJ_769gDPx2Cxf8gZMGbOskK0OydG6_s_5nUD5PC0qUKTbW6N3vHgMJ4mOP7XC2xD8fAHTuLZsPykn72jugaZ25Xjc2YkcVKczbbA-HTUCTsE0seC8Z9qrM/s1600/100_2863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLYuscsjap85FfFiTuG33yJ_769gDPx2Cxf8gZMGbOskK0OydG6_s_5nUD5PC0qUKTbW6N3vHgMJ4mOP7XC2xD8fAHTuLZsPykn72jugaZ25Xjc2YkcVKczbbA-HTUCTsE0seC8Z9qrM/s640/100_2863.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing my appreciation for Wigeland</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw46TJvDKyEm7kWOEYf1t_4RqWsII00NXa3cT3QCaHtAruk_aFM8rv_ZlJlruKJnTfJmPwtNoSz6dEGFcQS9_LByUafhVZ3zUyLnte5i-NnYRKF8jl7BpYAk4C-Q1lHPxLfBqgFgOt7xw/s1600/100_2854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw46TJvDKyEm7kWOEYf1t_4RqWsII00NXa3cT3QCaHtAruk_aFM8rv_ZlJlruKJnTfJmPwtNoSz6dEGFcQS9_LByUafhVZ3zUyLnte5i-NnYRKF8jl7BpYAk4C-Q1lHPxLfBqgFgOt7xw/s400/100_2854.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I may have taught my parents a proper love for Freia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji25OrdaP3GXpB7nro_F5qjeJfmDCO-Jmvb0eN4aMKjjxtus8xxnSVqsmIXdFTF3-w6yMIC99joNgi2eXsPBAykGzNDRloPTMzLDxeOV-67LUImdFCHOu5O0zIIVSuntOqO8coTbuDBgo/s1600/100_2858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji25OrdaP3GXpB7nro_F5qjeJfmDCO-Jmvb0eN4aMKjjxtus8xxnSVqsmIXdFTF3-w6yMIC99joNgi2eXsPBAykGzNDRloPTMzLDxeOV-67LUImdFCHOu5O0zIIVSuntOqO8coTbuDBgo/s640/100_2858.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Akershus Fort, overlooking Oslo's fjord</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7jezCvrFF1GL3Jv8YpZWRYW9KSU9WwMZ1KaOnndp7w-bdTH1D09AXtUpC25fHkDET1MRpcVFqKBbgL3AWyWJdQyhDe5F7koZieKMDUFriWaFl7RdaoFVgRb7EHFzLYtrT5RoRS60NHtI/s1600/100_2868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7jezCvrFF1GL3Jv8YpZWRYW9KSU9WwMZ1KaOnndp7w-bdTH1D09AXtUpC25fHkDET1MRpcVFqKBbgL3AWyWJdQyhDe5F7koZieKMDUFriWaFl7RdaoFVgRb7EHFzLYtrT5RoRS60NHtI/s640/100_2868.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1Vs1iUYmA125Hy7ei6NJgspkLI8ZBPcI_EZBjGCBMnXbOYp-6-fwBnASIvofMbUr7T5gJZ9F8aSfMgFCrIE0Db17KM-nvakrpIpGC2-asT0VMHnoC1-yUL0O-fVSxW57Aflpe0QxK0/s1600/100_2864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1Vs1iUYmA125Hy7ei6NJgspkLI8ZBPcI_EZBjGCBMnXbOYp-6-fwBnASIvofMbUr7T5gJZ9F8aSfMgFCrIE0Db17KM-nvakrpIpGC2-asT0VMHnoC1-yUL0O-fVSxW57Aflpe0QxK0/s1600/100_2864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1Vs1iUYmA125Hy7ei6NJgspkLI8ZBPcI_EZBjGCBMnXbOYp-6-fwBnASIvofMbUr7T5gJZ9F8aSfMgFCrIE0Db17KM-nvakrpIpGC2-asT0VMHnoC1-yUL0O-fVSxW57Aflpe0QxK0/s1600/100_2864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1Vs1iUYmA125Hy7ei6NJgspkLI8ZBPcI_EZBjGCBMnXbOYp-6-fwBnASIvofMbUr7T5gJZ9F8aSfMgFCrIE0Db17KM-nvakrpIpGC2-asT0VMHnoC1-yUL0O-fVSxW57Aflpe0QxK0/s1600/100_2864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyf1Vs1iUYmA125Hy7ei6NJgspkLI8ZBPcI_EZBjGCBMnXbOYp-6-fwBnASIvofMbUr7T5gJZ9F8aSfMgFCrIE0Db17KM-nvakrpIpGC2-asT0VMHnoC1-yUL0O-fVSxW57Aflpe0QxK0/s320/100_2864.JPG" width="320" /><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcINxPLuetz2pM-twrBRu6HzjbUo1hAYgt4RAoRzpuhkeMw-Z6rUES2sM9Wn6TD8XmKE1KSTtmUNREie0YJqMYgSSUd6bGR4tECJC6ba1AQvjwQavjqFtK2xitjA6c6cbckXM3D71iV0g/s1600/100_3099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcINxPLuetz2pM-twrBRu6HzjbUo1hAYgt4RAoRzpuhkeMw-Z6rUES2sM9Wn6TD8XmKE1KSTtmUNREie0YJqMYgSSUd6bGR4tECJC6ba1AQvjwQavjqFtK2xitjA6c6cbckXM3D71iV0g/s640/100_3099.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bergen the Beautiful</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-25105270020405955792012-03-20T00:05:00.006+01:002012-03-20T08:52:02.439+01:00Dude, What Vagina'ed?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GlR5eXJV0zy60rKEaJ9UW8BwAGaiVgEkNW1SyGouwjkGxk9M2fGLmUMhGGJ_-Iw8nE_nlwXyhJXOqV_fuvCGz9KDWwZRv820-b58SHK02EFtNlPD5K7NBiI0BRmN0Gkpw5BLQXRH9Bk/s1600/EuropeanSandwich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GlR5eXJV0zy60rKEaJ9UW8BwAGaiVgEkNW1SyGouwjkGxk9M2fGLmUMhGGJ_-Iw8nE_nlwXyhJXOqV_fuvCGz9KDWwZRv820-b58SHK02EFtNlPD5K7NBiI0BRmN0Gkpw5BLQXRH9Bk/s320/EuropeanSandwich.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A European sandwich, anyone?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Revelation from my UiB graduate English buddies: In Norwegian, the past tense for “happened” and the kid’s word for “vagina” sound so similar that my American ears can’t pick them apart. As we sat on the couches outside the reading room, they repeated the words over and over, stressing their distinction. I wonder what everyone doing their research thought when they heard us shouting “skjedde” and “skjede” each time the door opened. Hopefully, they realized it was a linguistics lesson, or maybe thought we were a traveling Scandinavian Vagina Monologues rehearsal. Luckily, skjedde's verb status means it doesn’t often get mistaken for “skjede” in a sentence. Unlike that other pesky noun, “kjede.” It means “necklace.” But obviously, if you’re in a jewelry store, you want to buy a necklace, not a vagina. It may get a bit more awkward if you want to compliment someone’s bling...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2679250124748682578.post-37647192884286472222012-03-18T22:30:00.003+01:002012-03-18T22:36:30.404+01:00Mountains in the Mists<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66zajTXe1cUjlQJfCnVJCH9DsQDYnS9n5E3_h1zf6lRvPpIuoZZh1Jk17_ecEG9kiwkK1oXUeUQvLKa1GFrlPt-6RTfMnBq9YevltAdvveDx-Jhgc5H1ukMtw6mPvdwzjkDwNAk6fCSA/s1600/100_2798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66zajTXe1cUjlQJfCnVJCH9DsQDYnS9n5E3_h1zf6lRvPpIuoZZh1Jk17_ecEG9kiwkK1oXUeUQvLKa1GFrlPt-6RTfMnBq9YevltAdvveDx-Jhgc5H1ukMtw6mPvdwzjkDwNAk6fCSA/s320/100_2798.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dense mists on Ulriken</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">The past weekend has been one of long walks. Friday up Ulriken, where I stumbled around up top for awhile in the fog, finally conceding defeat to the mist and going back down the mountain the way I came up. Sunday was a beauty of a day, with thick plashes of hail covering the ground under a sunny haze, and hail showers pummeling us intermittently with blue sun-skinned sky winning out in glorious shadow-play. I went up Løvstakken, and spent a while sunning myself at the top. Tanning in short sleeves on a mountain top with patches of snow around you really brings out one’s sense of the absurd.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Another cheider today. Had the kids pick different positions and argue about what to do when the Crusaders come. I think the highlight of the debate was when one suggested picking up and moving to South Africa. Why South Africa, you ask? So did I. No good reason. They knew a surprising lot about the Black Death, and were interested in all the gory details I could give them about the Spanish Inquisition. Still, most interesting moment came when one kid looked up and asked, “but, why do Jews and Muslims hate each other?” We’d been talking about how they lived together in peace for awhile, while Europe was bloodily pushing Jews around. I gave him as much nuance as I could in my rejection of his premise, and was a little warmed by his saying, “well, yes, I know we don’t <i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hate each other, one of my best friends is Muslim,” even as the worn catchphrase made me smile sadly a bit. I’m thinking I’m going to cut out the Yeshiva session, and skip ahead to Israel as soon as possible. There’s too much to talk about there.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqm9y9HmBVzHK4aEaC08T_Qh_b2yaZ7O3GzffQGetA3NXFdTIGYXVAyUmknqhNCFkeOuMIX4unyxWNy9DB1S4_5VlOj53BwNkzq_H9seRVyPWaFK99R55ZUoOOeoC_-0k_6KZHtZxS-Q/s1600/100_2803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqm9y9HmBVzHK4aEaC08T_Qh_b2yaZ7O3GzffQGetA3NXFdTIGYXVAyUmknqhNCFkeOuMIX4unyxWNy9DB1S4_5VlOj53BwNkzq_H9seRVyPWaFK99R55ZUoOOeoC_-0k_6KZHtZxS-Q/s400/100_2803.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across from Fantoft today</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">I walked back through temperamental hailstorms, most definitely muttering to myself like a madman about race and religion. I'm going to have to come to some sort of resolution eventually, some brilliant epiphany that can be applauded in the blog comments at the bottom here. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Back at my apartment I made myself some hot apple cider, settled down in a deliciously well-worn man’s sweater I’d snagged from Fretex, and promptly stumbled across three of my favorite people on skype in succession. Nothing picks you up like an across-the-world chat with close friends. Especially when I’ve been out of touch for awhile, and beginning to feel itchy to return to my nearest and dearest. As thunder clashed and hail pounded outside my window, cider, sweater, and skype smoothed my mood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">A friend of mine has started blogging and it’s such a delightful mix of literature and life I just have to share: <a href="http://injudithsroom.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">InJudith'sRoom</a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Tomorrow, my parents come to Bergen! I’m getting a whole week of hugs...</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclZdWt010bJhkknhax8t_Xtm0qIVOqdXTKENmPrBKYfp2MOF2VRnR0xQiwtlPjDjCcTxuyJhvLO6cDBxZEk04DqF5F7Is8S47zsOGBCf3XvKHu-h-cWuCayg1uFgXR2_egh8SomeudgY/s1600/100_2805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclZdWt010bJhkknhax8t_Xtm0qIVOqdXTKENmPrBKYfp2MOF2VRnR0xQiwtlPjDjCcTxuyJhvLO6cDBxZEk04DqF5F7Is8S47zsOGBCf3XvKHu-h-cWuCayg1uFgXR2_egh8SomeudgY/s640/100_2805.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The house I want</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAYFkjq6z3Id84vtfMgx8EC4T0h1vBXmFpzWVSd5v2QwWBwCmThaAGt_3rsUKaSunPc2d4KVarvkoXuAwwF0kyVBDkcXugFMhZTcRUEzFAb8dT8OiqZQoLPFPKVFSXTeDBfDClViinbA/s1600/100_2807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAYFkjq6z3Id84vtfMgx8EC4T0h1vBXmFpzWVSd5v2QwWBwCmThaAGt_3rsUKaSunPc2d4KVarvkoXuAwwF0kyVBDkcXugFMhZTcRUEzFAb8dT8OiqZQoLPFPKVFSXTeDBfDClViinbA/s640/100_2807.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tried to capture the droplets on the branches</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYs09Vxdkv1jRUpvZk_9Jv3JygMF5K0hc9K53OixNV4mxLSEr_n3-dabDV8Nyphm5WdSXAyGCm5gTbjdfh7SxuoIFgG_bHDihf1YXLWjh_Qt3_TFwei5gmw4btZs3o31TbC78opqR1D0/s1600/100_2818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYs09Vxdkv1jRUpvZk_9Jv3JygMF5K0hc9K53OixNV4mxLSEr_n3-dabDV8Nyphm5WdSXAyGCm5gTbjdfh7SxuoIFgG_bHDihf1YXLWjh_Qt3_TFwei5gmw4btZs3o31TbC78opqR1D0/s640/100_2818.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stone wall halfway up Løvstakken</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4aamk6bcCC1lYrq4bwXyViz-Wym7lM_SUO9gWw81Ez1wySq_cnXaY-Z8eFFzJ1nwqirHQMEe7UzFgQWfNYKa5CbtP_fVShbc2meeKfPX_zKFohhv9aF_V_Restm3wp7b_HmNIq3Gipc/s1600/100_2822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4aamk6bcCC1lYrq4bwXyViz-Wym7lM_SUO9gWw81Ez1wySq_cnXaY-Z8eFFzJ1nwqirHQMEe7UzFgQWfNYKa5CbtP_fVShbc2meeKfPX_zKFohhv9aF_V_Restm3wp7b_HmNIq3Gipc/s640/100_2822.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite pine groves in Bergen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YzZKAIxSEbQRCvSxEobXa8zwHJPbohXIBOrteSMOOSGZm5t_efmehCJNu_LO23_5SzBlXli-ANqtQmvLj5qk12ZBiCH8H25UEkhtBiRz1Sm0qXt2pnALcpBnqvA71vC6gEJtKcmnMY8/s1600/100_2830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YzZKAIxSEbQRCvSxEobXa8zwHJPbohXIBOrteSMOOSGZm5t_efmehCJNu_LO23_5SzBlXli-ANqtQmvLj5qk12ZBiCH8H25UEkhtBiRz1Sm0qXt2pnALcpBnqvA71vC6gEJtKcmnMY8/s640/100_2830.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mist rising off the fjord</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0ypbafmpkDiXDRMclEuvLtZYMwjsoeuBvVG6IaNwceLkgc5YyNiEYvO3fwRzt3nASF3ZJORNjYyFqo1XPY8zpZalW34UdL8RfC2Iv__YmNhgLx2sH0Hw5-43VFEp4JxvtbtLMsDAYs4/s1600/100_2836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0ypbafmpkDiXDRMclEuvLtZYMwjsoeuBvVG6IaNwceLkgc5YyNiEYvO3fwRzt3nASF3ZJORNjYyFqo1XPY8zpZalW34UdL8RfC2Iv__YmNhgLx2sH0Hw5-43VFEp4JxvtbtLMsDAYs4/s640/100_2836.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ulriken across the valley</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMRoPD3WsJ6NoLJs5Iasxi2cVopbc_OrGsimnugtB1qeOGREY9KKuCWgrS8BEc9WBGRpx0df3lEByI12T8OogSpr9eDAH_jOFqOVC0xwNbu3tbUQ2-mODz1pLHShyloZiCfWBbjiTEMI/s1600/100_2832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMRoPD3WsJ6NoLJs5Iasxi2cVopbc_OrGsimnugtB1qeOGREY9KKuCWgrS8BEc9WBGRpx0df3lEByI12T8OogSpr9eDAH_jOFqOVC0xwNbu3tbUQ2-mODz1pLHShyloZiCfWBbjiTEMI/s640/100_2832.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The panoramic view from the ridge trail</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>HWEladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06650916208714317375noreply@blogger.com1