The reason I went to Norway last week was to write a feature about the Norwegian Opera House. This fjord-inspired building has attracted much fanfare for its remarkable architecture that allows visitors to walk up and all over the roof of white Italian marble. I received a press ticket to see the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the world’s best orchestras–or so the Internet told me. With a day’s notice to the performance, the first and only thought that raced through my mind was worry about being out of the place at such a high-brow event. All I could do was fuss about cobbling together an outfit out of my backpack of travel wears.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see that the crowd was nowhere as blue-blooded as I anticipated. Yes, the median age jumped by several decades (having worked at a record store I expected this) but it was more like seeing your friend’s Grandma dressed in her sunday best, not feeling inadequate next to Emily Gilmore. There were a remarkable number of people in jeans and sneakers, who didn’t look awkward and weren’t subject to any dirty looks at all. White was the overwhelmingly the wine of choice (to match the building maybe?) and red was all but the pariah’s choice. The theatre critic sitting next to me told me it was an opera thing and that at theatre, red is preferred. My Norwegian friend said it was because of the summery weather and winter saw more consumption of red wine.

As soon as the show started, I became transfixed by the violins. To see all the bows rise and fall in unison and create such a loud, powerful sound without microphones or a sound system was awe-inspiring. Sir Simon Rattle, A-list in the classical celebrity world, conducting with his Einstein-like mane reminded me of that episode of Looney Tunes where Bugs Bunny leads an orchestra through an epic by furiously thrusting his ears. But whatever he did worked. The musicians brought sheet music to life and classical music wasn’t just something I had to spend half an hour a day doing anymore.

If there’s one thing I didn’t learn in the 10 years of piano lessons was how to appreciate classical music. When I started playing at six, I was a few years away from falling headfirst into the world of Hanson and Spice Girls. When I called it quits at 15, it was because I was preoccupied with being “indie” in a town where “indie” means Indian. Classical music was what came out of my Dad’s dusty pile of CDs, a collection that was smaller than my own by the time I was 15. It was the music that my cousins from Vancouver played in competitions that brought them around the world. The first and only time I met them, I was seven and they were staying at our house during a competition. The eldest cousin, who now plays in piano trio in New York City, would practice for hours on the piano my mother saved up to buy me, while I pranced around the living room with a glitter baton in my hand. Playing piano for me was always a perfunctory exercise. It took all the energy I had, or was willing to invest, just to hold down my whole notes and remember to hit the accidentals.

For the first time, I feel like I’m ready to give classical music a chance, as a listener.

posted by vicky at 8:46 pm under Europe, Music, Norway
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I was told by a Norwegian that alcohol was so expensive in her country because of the heavy taxation stemming from strong religious beliefs held by a minority of the population. This contradicted the what I had read about the majority of Scandinavians identifying as Lutherans, but few actually practicing religion at all. If any country should have a polytheistic tradition, it should probably be this one. If the Norwegians were polytheistic, they would worship the sun and make offerings to the gods of darkness and rain to keep them at bay, or, in this case, fjord.

Every Norwegian I met, made sure to tell me how lucky I was with the weather. For the week that I stayed in Norway, it was nothing but 16°C, blue skies and plenty of sunshine. Apparently, everything you’ve ever heard about dark and bleak Nordic winters is absolutely true. The Oslofolk (does anyone know the actual/a better denonym?) are only too eager to tell you how their city slumps into depression into the winter and becomes a completely different place. Every guide book recommends visiting Norway in late May but when the sun arrived unexpectedly early this year, I got to see the Oswegians (my own portmanteau) leave behind hibernation and come out and play.

Oslo may be the most expensive city in the world, but the hottest real estate come spring is the park. The people don’t seem to be picky about what else is in the park; all they want is one expansive piece of grass. Once this property has been attained, they use it to do their two favourite pasttimes: makeshift tanning and and ghetto barbequeing. The lack of sand and water doesn’t discourage Norwegians, male and female, from getting into swimsuits in parks. I have never seen people so desperate to get a tan. When they’re not roasting themselves, Norwegians also enjoy roasting sausages and fish burgers on tiny disposable barbeques. The barbeques are aluminum trays filled with charcol and a small grill covering it and the hottest item at the grocery stores. (Especially since one goes for 30 kr.) This is the quintessential Oslo experience: fighting the expensive cost of living by self-catering and self-imbibing but doing it while soaking up the sun. Cost and time efficient.

It’s not all sunshine in the spring though; it does reveal a darker edge. The trash cans in parks are overflowing with used barbeques and waste neatly packaged in plastic bags from the nearest supermarket. It’s not uncommon to see people walking around with bags to collect picnickers’ empty cans and bottles to return for the 1 kr deposit. I saw two young girls collecting empties but couldn’t tell if it was a means for extra pocket money or way to make ends meet. But there are definitely worse places in the world to be scavenging for money.

posted by vicky at 1:00 pm under Europe, Norway
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For such a small country, the Dutch have a rich selection of stereotypes and symbols draw from when creating nationalistic costumes. Cows, clogs, tulips, triangular bonnets and of course mass-manufactured orange bric-a-brac: there was no shortage of choices to express Dutch pride. I had picked up a t-shirt at the squat advertising Snoopy’s Holland Party for the occasion. Still, the day before Queen’s Day, I didn’t feel quite orange enough and went on a search for some obnoxious orange accessories.

Instead, I walked into a used clothing store and found a vintage KLM stewardess uniform calling my name. The outfit plus the scarf, cost 8,50€. Despite the fact the fabric is salmon, the frills make it comically Dutch. Lining the pockets and collar is ribbon sporting the colours of the Dutch flag and the orange tulle (added by the previous owner) isn’t too subtle. It was a steal of a find and I can’t believe it stayed on the racks for that long. Now I could walk the streets of Amsterdam with confidence.

Granted, when we got to Amsterdam around noon there wasn’t much walking to be done. The train stations were issuing special OranjeRetour tickets, that allowed free access to the metro, buses and trams in addition to the train journey. You get what you pay for (the ticket was its usual price ) as every street I walked down was shut down and flooded with pedestrians and there were no buses or trams in sight. But that was Queen’s Day in essence, one big city-wide street party.

There really wasn’t anything especially interesting for me other than the universal party atmosphere. There were stages set up at various points in the city with performers blaring dance music. Party boats were putting about in the canals blaring their own dance music. The most iconic imagery were the normally pristine streets covered in litter and overflowing public urinals. And then there were the special Queen’s Day menus where shopkeepers blatantly charged twice their normal prices. I sound really unimpressed but the truth is I was a little bit. Carnival was mind-blowing for me and I was expecting something ten-folds for a national holiday in the capital. Maybe you can only feel that wow-effect for this kind of thing once or maybe it’s true that they do party harder south of the Rhine.

posted by vicky at 6:31 pm under Europe, Netherlands
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Since the day I arrived in the Netherlands I’ve been anticipating Queen’s Day, the country’s biggest holiday. April 30 was the birthday of the former queen, Wilhemina, but her daughter and reigning queen, Beatrix, has decided to save the date. This is basically the Dutch equivalent of Canada Day except they do it with much more vigour.

My friends and I did our best to obtain the authentic Dutch experience by baking cookies to sell on the street. Queen’s Night is the evening before the official celebration when the streets are lined with amateur merchants. Utrecht turned into one giant garage sale with stalls set up lining the canals. Real estate is so hot, apparently, that people go days ahead of time armed with masking tape to mark their territory. Hearing this, I invested 2,68€ in baking supplies to make shortbread and get down with the locals. My hope was to make enough money with my orange and crown shaped cookies to buy some of other people’s wares. Since arriving in Europe, I’ve acquired a taste for antique stores. The prospect of rummaging through other people’s old things and cutting out the middleman had me salivating, something it seemed, my cookies couldn’t do for the Dutch.

I decided to sell my ‘koekjes,’ as it were, at the reasonable price of four for 1€. We set up shop on an old bookcase that a bunch of students were trying to sell. I paid them off with a cookie each in exchange for our storefront. So there I stood switching between yelling “koekjes” and “cookies” to bemused passersby. No one was remotely interested in buying my cookies despite the fact that I had a team of orange-clad girls on the street advertising for me. At first we thought it was because the cookie bowl was half covered in foil to protect them from the on-and-off-again rain, so I removed it for better merchandise visibility. Then, I took my coat off and froze in my Queen’s Day outfit, hoping the gimmick would help it sell. Even when Lorenzo, the Italian master chef, offered a free slice of cake with purchase of my cookies there was not even the remotest nibble of interest.

Most Dutch people tried as hard as possible to avoid eye contact and on the off-chance they had the misfortune of catching our eye, they wouldn’t slow down as they declined. After a while we began to get bored and desperate which led to yelling things about how these cookies were made by a Canadian and therefore an authentic and exotic treat. When that didn’t work we tried to give free samples that all but one group of university students and one old woman turned down. Things were pretty dismal when a man in a hi-lighter yellow jacket walked up to our booth. When he asked if I had change for 2€, he was swarmed by my overjoyed friends offering praise and thanks. We told him he could take as many cookies he wanted and snapped photos. He was our only customer, but in that way it made it all the more special.

posted by vicky at 5:24 pm under Europe, Netherlands
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