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| Seagulls don't talk. I like that about them. |
Before we boarded the from-the-airport train in Oslo, Norway,
Younger Daughter, who currently lives in one of the capital city’s outer
neighborhoods, whispered advice.
“Norwegians don’t make eye contact with strangers and won’t
strike up conversations. If you attempt to chat with strangers, they’ll think
you’re weird.”
I found that information comforting rather than off-putting because
I dread getting stuck with a chatty seatmate who plays a version of
Twenty Questions. If you’ve spotted me on a plane, train, or bus, you know I
favor the window seat and my gaze seesaws between my Kindle and the view
outside.
Maybe I’m Norwegian.
That would explain a lot.
While waiting on the T-bane (Oslo’s rapid transit), I surreptitiously observed commuters. Men and women wore no-nonsense shoes, toted
backpacks, and sported no-fuss hairstyles.
Maybe I’m Norwegian.
That would explain a lot, especially my love for of clunky
Merrell shoes.
Before I could tell my daughter about our likely Viking
ancestor, a man eager to enter the arriving T-bane elbowed me aside. He said
nothing in the way of apology, and I shrugged it off. Later, a commuter let a
door smack me in the face. What the heck?
In the privacy of her apartment, my daughter told me
Norwegians rarely apologize for bumping into others and don’t hold doors. “Men
and women are equals, so men don’t hold doors for women. And Norwegians figure
they’re bothered you enough by bumping into you, so they don’t bother you more
by apologizing.”
Since I’m the kind of American who says, “I’m sorry” when
someone crashes into me, I began to doubt the existence of a Viking forebear.
From my daughter, more insights followed: “The resumes of Norwegians
tend to be brief and factual. They don’t brag.”
I’d rather stick a pencil in my eye than puff myself
up, so I put the Viking back into the family tree.
“Generally speaking, Norwegians are tolerant. You won’t hear
them criticize people.”
Hey, I’m tolerant. I try to guess the name of my Viking
ancestor. Leif, Harald, Nils?
“There’s no real word for “please” in Norwegian,” my
daughter says.
Whoa. Leif's days are numbered. “Is there a word for
thank you?” I ask.
“Takk,” she says.
I’ll work with that unless someone far younger pushes me out
of the way to snag a seat on the T-bane. If that happens, Leif’s toast.
