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.

We are moving to....

KUALA LUMPUR!

All suggestions for a new blog title welcome :)

My husband has just left to spend the week in Malaysia; he actually tried to get us to feel sorry for the fact that he's going to spend 22 hours on a plane each way in business class with no one but himself to think about, the latest movies to watch, all his food and drink handed to him on a tray, no laundry, no nappy changes, no toddler tantrums to negotiate, and getting paid into the bargain. Safe to say, sympathy was thin on this little patch of Norwegian ground.

Back soon with tales of spring in Norway, tearful farewells to snow boots & my polyester fake sheepskin coat (yes really!), and the much-awaited appointment with the endodontist.

Getting connected

For someone who lives so far away from family and many of my friends, I've been very slow off the mark with Skype. I did download it a few years back but found it slowed my laptop down. I also got lots of nuisance messages from various Turkish men, and I never actually made a call using it. I eventually uninstalled it. However, under pressure to support the long-distance friendship between my elder daughter and her best friend, who moved to Singapore last year, I've tried again with Skype. Today my daughter had a 45-minute video conference with her friend. As Hannah Montana might say: man, it was awesome!

The friend played her guitar. The girls giggled and gossiped. It was fun. And as I sat next door, eavesdropping, I could see the possiblities Skyping might offer once we move. In particular, I'm going to miss the two writer friends I meet every wednesday; we talk through our wroks-in-progress and convince ourselves we're not delusional in wanting to produce novels. We laugh. A lot.

Now I think, it might still be possible to continue this post-Norway; I'll just have to forfeit the prawn sandwiches and cafe mocca. I might even have to wear a bikini if it's too warm. It won't be the same but it's sure better than nothing.

It may not have been love at first sight for me and Mr Skype, but I think perhaps this slow-burning affection we are now developing may be more likely to last.

And this week, Ireland looks like paradise

HIM: So last night I emailed that guy in the US about job opportunities.

ME: Oh good.

HIM: He got back to me immediately.

ME: Oh yeah?

HIM: Yeah.

ME: And?

HIM: Well there's a a really great job going...

ME: It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: It's an engineering manager role.

ME It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: A great job with a promotion.

ME: It's in Nigeria isn't it?

HIM: Yep Lagos, Nigeria

To those who think we're adventurous, we're not really that adventurous. Ever since I married, the word 'Nigeria' has struck fear in my heart (and every other bit of me). I've met people who've lived there and while all have survived with interesting tales to tell at dinner parties, every single one of them took up golf while living there.

I mean Manila was no picnic, but with Nigeria I think of the chances of kidnapping, malaria, golf addiction and nervous breakdown (mine) as infinitely higher whilst living amid poverty, corruption, a very depressing outlook for the country and a generally low value on life. They don't like journalists over there either.

I am of course open to any positive comments any reader might have on life in Lagos with three young children. Honest I am. I await the deluge.

p.s. My daughter had her appendix removed last Friday. But really, surgery on a child in a clean hospital where you trust the staff and are treated with care, patience, a private room and, most importantly, competence, all of it paid for out of one's income taxes is boring compared to the threat of Nigeria. Isn't it?

Not an Irish Nomad in Ireland

So we're not moving to Ireland. My husband turned down the job in the hope that something else nearer our expectations will come up over the next few months. This means that we have recently turned down opportunities to move to both Denmark and Ireland, effectively rejecting our homelands - for the time being. The Copenhagen opportunity was easy to turn away from as the job required my husband to move companies and to be in the US for one month at a time. As tempted as I was by living in a city as cosmopolitan and culturally-rich as Copenhagen, and the chance to exchange my bad Norwegian accent for an even worse Danish one, doing this while not being able to live together as a family, wasn't an option.

The reasons we're not packing all our worldly possessions and labeling them for shipment to 'Ireland' are many, both emotional and practical. I won't go into the practical here. Suffice to say, that we tried to picture ourselves living in a small town in the west coast, almost as far from our families as we are now, adjusting to a very different schooling system for a couple of years, feeling foreign where we should feel at home, and complaining constantly about the weather. We tried to view Ireland as a challenge in the same way we viewed the Philippines back in 2001. The trouble with Ireland is that we could picture it and it wasn't a pretty picture. When leaving the comfort of our lives in Norway, we'd ideally like to move somewhere very different that will be difficult to compare directly, that will be new and exciting, making the move defendable to the three children that will have to adjust to it too. Somewhere in South Asia or the Middle East perhaps. We know Ireland too well. We know that other than the people themselves, at the moment, schooling, healthcare, transport and yes, even the bloody weather, would be several steps down from what we have here. It was only fear of the absence of an alternative that would have prompted us to accept that at this juncture.

So I've realized that the expat part of me is as dominant as the Irish part. That I love my country but don't want to live in a remote part of it. That may change as I get older and our family matures - and maybe if I get a novel published too - but for the moment, I'm not yet ready to become 'The Irish Nomad in Ireland'. Not yet.

Let's hope we've made the right decision. My mother, father and close friends are at least certain we have.

And the talk of moving begins

Over 80% of Norwegians consider Norway to be a near-perfect land to live in according to a survey discussed on NRK radio the other day. I imagine the small percentage that doesn’t see the relative Utopianism of the UN’s best country to live in, in the world, has never lived abroad. They’ve definitely never lived in Ireland, that’s for sure.

Every time I speak to my parents they recount tales of doom and gloom, and not just on the subject of the weather and the latest of their acquaintance they took to the church (my Dad’s euphemism for going to a funeral). No, the recession is biting hard over there, with unemployment soaring, public services failing and a property boom turned most emphatically bust. While there at Christmas I couldn’t believe the number of people I met casually who spoke of family and friends forced to work three-day weeks, something in Norway that is associated with quality of life and balancing work and family, not being forced to take pay cuts.

Novelist Anne Enright has written very eloquently on the topic of Ireland’s recession in an article entitled ‘Sinking by Inches’ in the London Review of Books here.

Coincidently after coming across Ms Enright’s piece yesterday, I received an email from a young Irish engineering graduate who has just arrived in Oslo with two friends in search of a better life*. ‘Our journey was motivated by a sense of hopelessness with the Irish economy, and a desire to check out the grass on the other side,’ he said, citing Norway’s low unemployment rate as one of the attractions here. I left Ireland 16 years ago with similar motivations and qualifications. There was no hint then to people like me that the Celtic Tiger was gestating for its short but dramatic life.

If this young man stays for the next year or so, I believe he won’t want to ever leave Norway. In my heart of hearts I now don’t want to either. But yet we are, as a family, committed to exploring other parts of the world and feel that there are other challenges ahead. We’d especially like the chance to live again in South East Asia where two of our children were born and where we would all benefit from exposure to very foreign cultures whilst enjoying a sense of adventure together.

My husband’s job finishes here in the summer and we expected that over the next few months he would get to consider his options in terms of location and job. What we didn’t expect was the phone call that came last Monday evening. His employer wants him to take up a position in …Ireland. Not only Ireland, but a very remote part of the west of Ireland; you could hardly move me further within the western world from a branch of H&M. And so on I joked as I coped with the shock.

We don’t want to go, for many reasons, some complex, some simple, both personal and professional. No matter where we move, leaving our near-perfect lives in Norway will be a wrench, but I have tried to console myself that in leaving we will resist the urge to 'play it safe' and open ourselves up to new possibilities and life-affirming experiences. What I didn’t bank on was going home. Will keep you posted.

*If by any chance someone reading is looking to employ an english-speaking Mechanical Engineering graduate, particularly if you have any connection with the bioengineering/biotech industries, I know a young man who'd love if you'd read his CV.

Man Booker Prize 2009

Those who know me, know that I'm a little bit obsessed by the Man Booker prize. Possibly because there have been so many Irish winners and shortlisters in the past: Banville, Enright, Toibin, Barry, Trevor, Moore and so on. Well there were no Irish writers in this year's shortlist but I am pleased to see that, other than writing and gender, I do have something else in common with Hilary Mantel, this year's winner for her novel 'Wolf Hall'.

Ms Mantel was once an expat spouse, and accompanied her geologist husband on assignments to Botswana and the Middle East in the seventies. I know for a fact though that she didn't spend hours on Facebook, gazing at celebritybabies.com and blogging when she should have been writing fiction. Even if the Internet had been invented then, I bet she wouldn't have been so easily distracted.

Congratulations Hilary Mantel. Am logging off so I can work on my novel - right NOW!

An open letter to His Gorgeousness the Prime Minister

Dear Mr Stoltenberg,

Let me start by congratulating you and your colleagues on your election victory. It was hardly a surprise that the sexiest man in European politics* (I’d say the world, if it weren’t for the delectable and evermore powerful President Obama) was last night elected to a second consecutive term as the Prime Minster of Norway. Not that I think the Norwegian electorate voted for you based on your looks; they are far too sensible for that. Or are they? I don’t know, actually, not being one of them.

The fact is Mr Stoltenberg that as a 38-year-old with more degrees than some thermometers, an excellent credit rating, a clean driving license from two nations (the ones with the ‘special relationship’ in case you are interested) and a shared tax bill over the past five years residency in your great country that runs into millions of Kroner, I am not considered trustworthy enough to be a member of the Norwegian electorate.

My 17-year old neighbour, who turns 18 next month, is still at school, dates a long-haired boy with trousers that never conceal his Bjorn Borg underwear, never reads a newspaper, dresses exactly the same as every other 17-year-old girl in the country, and thinks the word 'fuck' is Norwegian for 'cool', was able to vote yesterday, but I suspect didn’t bother. This, while I, a former preschool board member, Year 2 class representative and all around upstanding member of the international community, who persists in reading Aftenposten everyday despite the absence of anything interesting to read, avails gratefully of your excellent public childcare system and feeds her daughter brown cheese on a daily basis (this alone makes me practically Norwegian by naturalisation), has no right to vote. Why is that, Mr Stoltenberg? Can it really be because the front of my passport says the word ‘Eire’ and not ‘Norge’? Isn’t that a tad petty in these times of globalisation?

You are not alone of course in denying me my democratic right. The US, Singapore and the Philippines had the same attitude towards me. Only the UK gave me a vote as a tax-paying long-term resident, a right I exercised on the day Tony Blair swept to power in 1997. Well, we all make mistakes, don’t we?

My own country doesn’t allow me to vote either, by virtue of my absence, as there is no overseas voting system for Irish citizens. However, as I haven’t lived there since 1993, the only government policies likely to affect me are taxes on airport travel and inheritance, and possibly third-level education for non-residents, I don’t feel this is in anyway unfair. I do think however, that having half my income taken in taxes in Norway (not to mention the other non-income based taxes I pay everyday while working on my considerable shopping habit) while being denied the right to vote in how these taxes are deployed within the society I live in, is frankly taking the piss.

So Mr Stoltenberg , once your victory hangover has cleared, and you have a little time on your hands, I wonder if you might consider the plight of the tax-paying foreigner so that when the next election comes around, in 2013, I might get to vote (online if news reports are to be believed). It could then be, for both of us, a case of third time lucky (assuming in the meantime that age doesn’t rob you of your good looks and I don’t decide to go pay my taxes somewhere else).

Mvh,

The Irish Nomad in Norway.

* I realise that Carla Bruni might not agree with this statement but I am willing to go stiletto to stiletto with her over it.

Who are you?

Today, the first day of the summer holidays, we headed to the beach in Sandvika for a couple of hours. It made me feel like a decent mother, and I got a bit of a tan at the same time.

In the afternoon the girls had two friends over - sisters the same age, and in their respective classes - who moved here from Malaysia around Christmastime. Eavesdropping on one conversation, as I do, the eldest sister asked my eldest daughter where she was from. I know she wanted to hear a country name, not an explanation of why with two nationalities (from countries she has never lived in), and being born in a third, having lived in a fourth for three years before moving to a fifth for the past four years, she doesn't really know. Neither does her mother. She said she didn't really know, and the conversation moved on.

'From my mommy's tummy' was a cute answer I overheard when they were younger but now I think it's time to come up with a more concise, and less literal response. Or maybe, it's not.

It's certainly a question all my children are going to be asked for the rest of their lives. I still get asked every time I meet someone new. And for me the answer is simple. For my kids, it's got to be better than, 'I don't really know'. It will probably end up being 'I'm Irish and Danish, and have lived in a few other countries' which doesn't exactly answer the question but does start telling their story.

I suppose after all when someone asks you 'Where are you from?' they are, in a polite way, asking 'Who are you?' anyway, aren't they?

Frens forever

Original artwork (watercolour) by Erin, Aged 6.5

There have been a lot of goodbyes around here lately. I guess it’s a feature of expat life or more specifically international schooling that if you stay longer than four years in a location, the people you met when you first arrive, start to move on. In fact this happened in the Philippines after less than three years, so I guess the time-line can vary, but the effect of the exodus of friends doesn’t.

This time though it’s not just I that is losing friends to other destinations but my children. Both girls’ bestest friends are leaving Norway for good. We don’t say ‘for good’ though; we say things like ‘oh but you’ll be able to email them’ and ‘you never know, we might move to Singapore/Washington/Shanghai/Berkshire/Scotland!’. I’ve already set up a Hotmail account for my eight-year old whose friends since she was three are both moving.
On a logical level I know that this is the way the life we have chosen is. I am very fortunate too to have really close friends who are living in Norway 'til death do them part. I also know from experience that I still have very strong friendships with people I have left behind before and will continue to do so. I feel slightly deflated after a whole stream of farewells but thank goodness for Facebook!
But for my girls saying goodbye like this is a new experience and one for which the only coping strategies I can think of are playdates with new friends, lots and lots of ice cream and keeping busy, busy, busy. I will of course spend even more time than usual on Facebook keeping in touch with the mothers of their wee friends because I am the kind of Irish martyr mammy who is prepared to make such sacrifices. There will also be lots of conversation about it being OK to feel sad when your friends are leaving the country (forever, shh!) as opposed to the ‘aw for God's sake take that long face off ya' strategy employed in my own youth.
And you know, at least these girls are old enough to understand logic if not emotions. But what about the little man? At two and a half he already has one favourite friend at barnehage, a little boy called Olav Nikolai who shares his passion for cars.
Olav Nokolai is moving barnehage after next week and little man will only see him again if I make a big, big effort to ensure that he does. So, it’s not just expats who move. And it seems that befriending Norwegians is no guarantee of being frens forever either.

Coffee Mornings

The first time I was invited to a coffee morning, I was insulted. Newly arrived in Houston, married only two weeks, 27-years-old. What would I be wanting with a coffee morning?

A coffee morning? I mean how retro, how sexist, and what a waste of time. I associated the term with housewives; housewives with not enough housework to do, and with a penchant for gossip but with little of interest to talk about. That wasn’t me. Coffee mornings were a throwback to my mother’s generation and further, weren't they? I was a career woman, without a work permit at the time, but a career woman, nonetheless, above such idleness. I only gathered with people when there was a specific agenda or alcohol, or preferably both, on offer. Yada, yada, yada crap. I didn’t say any of this aloud, you understand, but politely accepted the invitation and produced such a diatribe to bend the ear of my husband.

I also used to think that any woman who didn’t work clearly wasn’t ambitious and that absence of ambition was worthy of derision. I once said that I wasn’t going to send my children to the international school too.

So this morning I went to a coffee morning for parents of Grade 1 students at the international school and was grateful that I didn’t have to rush to an offce after school drop-off. There was one dad there; a brave Swede. I can’t imagine many Irish men turning up at such an event (but could in fact see my Danish husband yapping away with the ladies if I ever earned enough to keep us in the style to which I have become accustomed. Yeah like that’s ever going to happen). I had a nice time. I have embraced the merits of such a gathering.

Maybe I’ve grown up and divested myself of my ‘I’m-never-going-to-be-expat wife’ (expletive removed) chip on my shoulder. I clearly remember the evening I made that declaration by the way, only a few months after I started dating my husband. (You’d think he’d have had the sense to run).

Or, have I just become an expat wife. Mmm. What do you think?