Eurovision & Madcon

If you were strong enough to resist the lure of Eurovision last saturday, well done. I wasn't. It was on in Olso after all, so how could we ignore it. I stayed up well past my usual bedtime - as did my kids - but then went wearily off to bed, when it was already tomorrow, remembering why I haven't watched the show in 20 years. Nothing against Niamh Kavanagh - she sang well, and I love the song - but clearly it wasn't to Europe's taste - I use the term loosely here - and it did dismally. As did the Norwegian entry, which had been much hyped, and expected to do well. There was even talk in the Norwegian papers over concerns abut the cost of hosting the event again next year. There was no need to worry. Norway came something like 20th out of 25.

The event itself though was a triumph for Norway and the highlight was the interval act. It was worth staying up for. Good old Norway for resisting the opportunity to promote Norwegian tourism to millions of people and instead keeping to their 'Share the Moment' theme. It really, really worked and turned what has often been a cheesy, cringe-worthy competition into a modern, well choreographed, show of unity throughout Europe. Or at least the interval part; there was plenty to cringe at during the rest of the show.

If you missed it - here's the video (probably better watched on You Tube itself). I love it. The music starts a couple of minutes in and is worth the wait. Try sit still - bet you can't ;)

Eurovision Venue

Yes this is the week: semi-finals on Tuesday & Thursday, final on Saturday. The word is that Ireland's entry, sung by the fab Niamh Kavanagh, is in with a very good chance of making it through on Thursday to the final. Still, one can't be complacent. The photos above are from the venue - Telenor Arena - which yesterday was very quiet (and kinda grey-looking despite the sunshine.)

Maybe all the participants were at the beach nearby. We were :)

Pinse Supermarket Shut-Down

I cannot believe we got caught out. My parents have been visiting and the weather had turned BBQ-esque. What better way to spend the last evening of their trip, than out on the terrace eating food from the grill. Shame we left the shopping so late then. It's a holiday weekend. Pinse (Pentecost). I'd read in the paper that if you needed to buy wine or spirits it had to be before 6 on Friday or else you'd have delirium tremens by tuesday morning when Vin Monopolet reopens. Ditto beer from 3 PM on saturday. It's just a shame that the newspaper didn't mention that the same applied to food from 4 PM.

Yesterday (Sat), starting at 4.15 PM, my husband and I spent the nearest we've had to a date in a year, driving around looking for an open supermarket, cursing ourselves for not shopping earlier. We weren't the only ones who got caught out; every supermarket car park we went to was filled with frustrated and hungry people with shattered BBQ dreams. Note to supermarkets: in future when you are shut for 2.5 days, would you mind putting a sign outside your car park and remove the tantalizing boards advertising grill meat? Thanks. Much obliged. Not that we'll be here for future holiday weekend shut-downs. But still. Think of it as a public service appeal.

So we ended up with pizza from Peppes for the second time in a week and by the time we got home, it was raining with a ferocity worthy of the tropics. Still, cannot believe we got caught out after all these years. Even more surprised at the number of (presumably) Norwegians thinking the same thing this morning; I mean all those people we drove around with yesterday were hardly foreigners, were they?

To anyone thinking of trying to send us food parcels, the petrol stations are open today and tomorrow, so we won't starve. Thanks :)

A little bit of Irish in Oslo

A banner saying 'Hello' in Irish, one of many multi-lingual signs mounted on lamposts around Aker Brygge.

Next week the Eurovision Song Contest takes place in Oslo; or if you want to be technical about it, the adjacent kommune (where we live) in Baerum. For weeks now, banners have been flying all over the place inviting people to 'Share the Moment' of Eurovision 2010. Haven't really been interested in the contest for years but this year, given our proximity to it, and the fact that we'll be living outside of Europe for the next five or six years, I'm going to stay up, watch the final, and share the moment with my kids (who have been singing the chorus of the Norwegian entry for some time).

I had thought about trying to cover the event for a newspaper in Ireland but really that would mean staying up well past my bedtime and handing my children over to social services; I'm not that ambitious. There's also the small issue of moving to the other side of the world in six weeks and the unfinished novel putting demands on my time.

Next week though I'm going along to a reception at the Irish Embassy to meet Niamh Kavanagh who is representing Ireland at Eurovision with a ballad that quite frankly gives me goosebumps. Niamh won the contest before for Ireland in 1993. She's in with a good chance this year I think. Then again what do I know? I've hardly watched the contest since 1993.

Norway's National Holiday

The local school parade

My son (with flag) and his buddies in party mood

Well it's our sixth consecutive, and final, Norwegian National Day. At this stage we're a family well-equipped with flags and rosettes, and manage to cobble together enough half-decent clothes for the kids to look smart. Around half of Norwegian women wear the national costume, the Bunad, which comes in many intricate designs and usually consists of a full-length wool skirt, wool waistcoat and a white blouse. Men wear a trousered or knickerbockered version, with fancy socks and shoes, and sometimes a hat. These outfits take the 'what will I wear?' conundrum out of formal occasions as for which they are used, including weddings and baptisms. A friend of mine expressed relief over this but I think I'd miss the excitement of playing dress up on the few occasions it is merited. Bunads can cost thousands of Euros so you can understand people wanting to get their money's worth.

We've been here long enough that when we go down to celebrate May 17 with the local barnehage and school we know people and have started to feel like members of the community. It has taken time but it is a nice feeling. In some way, it's an achievement, as making in-roads in Norway when none of the family is Norwegian can be a challenge. Hey, that surprise third baby just keeps paying dividends ;)

I already know a lady on the Kuala Lumpur May 17th committee so I'm certain we'll be celebrating Norway's national day next year too. I doubt the wool bunads will be in evidence with temperatures in the thirties and 70-80 % humidity, but you never know. We'll be there with our flags and rosettes; assuming I'm able to find them once we get to the other side of the world.

The new tenant & the traitor

Well you know how I said that the mere mention of the landlord taking a prospective new tenant around my house set me blubbering (in the school playground of all places), well it didn't turn out to be as traumatic as anticipated - for my husband. For days I'd been vaguely planning to flee the house before the loathsome person arrived to poke around, but by 8 pm last night I was too exhausted to go anywhere other than to bed. Which by the way I had made in honour of our 'guest'.

My 3.5 year old son is still in nappies. The kindergarden staff say we shouldn't pressure him into using the toilet. His two buddies aren't toilet-trained either. Still, my son is self-aware enough never to poop in the kindergarden - 'I don't want my friends to smell it' - and he often informs me that he's about to poop in his nappy - he knows I like advance notice of everything, including nappy changes. Except last night no notice was given. He waited until the landlord was showing the prospective tenant around in the garden and then went for it. Big time.

So when the doorbell rang, my husband was changing the nappy, and I had to open the door and scowl at the interloper and the landlord. So much for making myself scarce. I was all smiles and explanations about the unpleasant aroma, wishing I'd burnt the dinner as it might have masked it somewhat. Or that they'd call the whole charade off. Alas, no. The man turned out to be French, and very pleasant and the father of three kids too, with much nappy experience himself, so I had to let him in to browse. Once the nappy was in the trash outside, my husband welcomed the guest and proceeded to spend the next hour showing the man around, as if it was his own house. Traitor! Meanwhile I was stuck with the kids, past bedtime, wishing it was mine, watching poor Gordon Brown and his wife Sarah (in an ill-fitting dress) being chucked out of their house. At least I don't have to traipse off to the Queen to tell her we're moving, I suppose.

Once the tour had proceeded to the basement I herded the kids upto bed. One ended under a bed but that was really the kind of day I was having. It was time for a glass of red, something I was sure the French man would have appreciated. Finally, my husband returned to say that he was off for a drive with the French man who happened to be the new MD of a certain German luxury car company, of which my husband has long been a fan and customer (only second-hand mind). Traitor extraordinnaire! Yes, I used to speak French, but alas non plus.

So the whole point is I survived. I didn't cry. Plus ça change. And my husband got to test drive a new car.

Rant of a weepy woman

Well right now I don't think I can call myself a blogger, nor a nomad. I haven't been blogging as I can't face writing about the elephant in the cyber-room i.e. the upcoming move to Kuala Lumpur, or as it looks in my mind, the upcoming wrenching away from my life to start over again. Yes, it's the latter attitude which should have me struck off the register of nomads (it's very exclusive, not a lot of people even know it exists). If people ask about the move, I politely answer them. I've even started sorting out our stuff. I've remained mostly calm over the number of forms and certifications and applications required for our visas. Then today; reality hit. My husband texted to say that the landlord wanted to show some people around our home of almost 6 years. Next week. And that was it. The dam burst, and I'm struggling to stop crying. Thank goodness for dark glasses. On a rational level, I know we need to go. I know there are adventures ahead. I know we are lucky to be able to live this nomadic life in relative luxury. I know there are people with real problems, hardships and pain. I know, I know, I know! But somehow my heart doesn't seem to realize all this, and it's breaking. How silly is that! I've moved a lot in the past 13 years but have never, ever felt anything like this about a move. And it's not just the house, that I'll miss; it's my car, my road, my friends, the roundabouts I could drive through with my eyes closed, the neighbours I've never had a conversation with, the shop that never has the bread I want, the kindergarden, the school, the goddamn stupid snow. Oh the list is too long, and I'm being a sentimental, moping eegit about it all.

I'll tell you how bad it is: my mother-in-law is arriving in two hours and I still have to pick one child up from kindergarden, another from football, the house is a mess, my husband is in Stavanger, and I can't be bothered wiping a cloth over the kitchen counter (which, by the way, I'm also going to miss) or tidying up the piles of shoes in the hallway (won't miss), lest she trip over them.

But you know what? I feel better now. Slightly. Thanks for listening to my self-indulgent rant. Maybe I should give this blogging lark another chance. I promise it will get more upbeat, eventually. The nomad stuff though? I'm feeling sort of finished with that right now. Just got to try hide that from the children.