Our adventure begins not in Oslo, but in London.
It’s mid-May and I’m cycling to meet a friend for drinks on the South Bank. Post-lockdown the city is teeming with life, optimism and endless opportunity for chance encounters.
It’s typically British weather for this time of year; that is, it’s all the weathers. And as I peddle upwind – singing Frank Sinatra lyrics aloud to keep the spirits high – the heavens open for yet another stout deluge. But these late-Spring showers end as quickly as they begin, lasting juuust long enough to soak you through to the skin if you remain exposed. Fortunately, this particular torrent times itself as I’m approaching Elephant and Castle, 200 yards from the large bridge that supports the train tracks above. I’m still just dry enough for it to be worth the wait. And besides, it’s easier to enjoy rain when you’re watching it from a suitable distance.
Under the bridge I pull curb-side and lift myself and my bike over the railing and onto the pavement. It’s really coming down now, hammering the puddled ground at a sharp, splashing angle. The combined commotion of traffic and monsoon is like white noise, enveloping the senses. I’m somewhat entranced by the shear weight of it when the Norwegian pulls up along side me. I hold her lumbering city bike – “not a tourist” – as she vaults the railing to join me in the dry safety of the pavement. As the rain continues to pour, drenching less well-timed individuals in the distance, we chat.
We talk about London, what we’re doing, who we are. And in spite of the prevailing wet, a spark ignites. I take her number before we go about our respective days; we both agree that it would be good to get a drink sometime.
3 months later I’m on a plane to Oslo.
I assumed the invite was sincere and flights were crazy cheap. And so after much coronavirus-related travel uncertainty – flipping from green to red and back to green – a second vaccine dose and a digital COVID pass, I’m on my way to the Norwegian’s homeland for a fleeting visit.
48 hours in Oslo; away we go.
Travel.
Travelling from the UK to Oslo is pretty darn easy. These flights cost just £20 with Ryan Air and take 1 hour and 40 minutes; I fall asleep upon take off and wake up with a stiff neck in a new country. And in spite of typical airbus restricted legroom, a randomly allocated middle seat, limited baggage storage and cattle-like mooing from all passengers, this part is mostly effortless. What does seem to test one’s capacity for Zen-like resolve during travel is going through passport control in the wake of Brexit and COVID-19.
There are three passport queues to enter the country, including one for Norwegian Nationals and one for European Union Passport Holders — both of which are greased-up slipstreams in comparison to the lumbering caravan for All Other Passports, which is basically just 150 British people getting gradually more agitated by the result of the Referendum.
If you are planning on going to Oslo, consider being European.
Arrival.
Have I died and gone to heaven? Am I dreaming? With a penchant for blondes it certainly feels like I’ve landed in my own municipal fantasy. Everywhere you look, blondes. Look over there, blondes. And look right here, blondes. Look up, blondes; look down, blondes. Blondes on bikes, blondes on trams, blondes on e-scooters. Blondes. Is Oslo the greatest city on Earth? Blondes.
Velkommen.
Having caught the train from Oslo Lufthavn to Oslo Sentralstasjon, I ask for directions to the tram stop which turns out to be practically where I’m already standing. Riding four stops North, I meet the (blonde) Norwegian at Olaf Ryes Plass for an excited velkommen. Having returned to Oslo for midsummer, it’s been a while since we saw each other last.
Like all mature and experienced travellers, I have done absolutely nothing in the way of research on my destination prior to travel. With the benefit of having my own personal Osloite host and tour guide, I’m taking an obscenely passive role in this travel experience. We’re going with the Oslo flow on this one and we’ll just see how that pans out.
There is one thing I do know about these high-tax-paying Scandinavian countries however: alcohol is stupid expensive. Accordingly, I took advantage of Duty Free at Stansted Airport and purchased liquor for the trip. A litre each of Tanqueray, Campari, and Martini Rosso adds up to 40 Negronis at roughly £1.12 each. Add ice and orange and that’s good drinking. And this is mostly what our first night in Oslo consists of – drinking several negronis each whilst eating sushi on the balcony of the Norwegian’s flat in Grünerløkka.
Grünerløkka is a seemingly pretty hip cool and happening area of the city, peppered with well-fitted coffee shops and restaurants, ephemeral popup wine bars and secretive art galleries behind unassuming doorways. The Akerselva River runs along the western border of the district, through parks and once-industrial creative spaces, and can be heard crashing past as we finish one last balcony negroni before heading back out into town. There’s a lively street festival alongside the park square Olaf Ryes Plass, banging out old school Hip Hop and R&B as restaurants spill over the pavement with the Oslonese having dinner and drinks. It’s a vibe, but we press on to Oslovelo, a local bike shop by day, bar by night. Although many bars and clubs in Oslo stay open until the early hours of the morning, they often close their doors to new arrivals before midnight. As such, if you intend on having a particularly late one, it’s necessary to secure entry early. Fortunately, the Norwegian is familiar with the bartender and we slip in and onto a table in spite of our tardiness.
Staying and travelling with a local is abound with such benefits. Local knowledge and freebie hookups go a long way to making one’s trip as easy and enjoyable as possible. Similarly, a native tongue gets you by fantastically well. Although Norwegians seem to speak better English than most Brits, something I discover first hand in a lengthy, drunken conversation with the two Oslogians occupying the neighbouring table – a designer and a journalist. We talk politics, media, and mullets whilst sharing wine and cigarettes. By the time we leave, my head is in a bit of spin.
Hangover Harbour.
I wake the next morning slightly disorientated and still wearing my shirt. With a cooked breakfast, coffee, painkillers and three pints of water under our belts, we head out into the bright sunshine of late-Summer in Oslo. And after collecting a spare bike from a friend, we cycle south to Oslo centre and the harbour.
The city of Oslo occupies the northernmost end of the Oslofjord. Although not technically a fjord in the geological sense – a long narrow inlet created by glacial activity – the term fjord in Norwegian applies to a wide range of waterways, Oslofjord included. The more you know.
Over recent years, the harbour has undergone a butt-load of development, rendering it practically unrecognisable from its younger self. Heavy traffic and maritime industries have yielded to pedestrian walkways, green spaces and a whole lot of wooden decking. Now, tourists and locals alike can stroll along the New Harbour Promenade uninterrupted for almost 10km, with some of Oslo’s top architectural attractions on one side – including the Munch Museum, the Opera House & Ballet, and the Barcode – and crisp waters and natural serenity on the other.
The Oslo Opera House
Navigating our way through a sea of pedestrians, we cycle right to the water’s edge at Sørenga. Formerly an old container dock – and with stacks of coloured containers still present across the way – Sørenga is now a residential neighbourhood flush with green spaces and restaurants. We cycle past the floating saunas and party boats taking leave across the fjord and arrive at Sørenga Sjøbad – the Seawater Pool. This wide, layered deck of wooden planking is peppered with sprawling bodies, lounging in the Saturday morning sunshine like happy seals. We find a spot on the edge of the deck and strip down to our swimmers.
It would appear that others are here for the same reason we are – to wash away the hangover. The Norwegians either side of us are discussing the events of the previous night as they peel off socks and shuffle trousers down to their ankles. After launching off the deck and into the fjord, wide-eyed gasping heads emerge from the water declaring, “Hungover rett vekk!” I dive in too and sure enough, once the cold salty water slaps my face, I resurface a man reborn; a new, shivering man covered in salty crystals and goosebumps. Nothing like a little shock therapy to rebalance the system.
Moments before I hit the water like a scorpion.
Døds.
It is also here by the water’s edge that I am introduced to the great sport of Døds, or Death Diving.
Originating in the 1960s at Frognerbadet – the Frogner Baths; public baths and swimming pool complex in Frogner district of Oslo – Death Diving is an amateur diving discipline and competition managed by The International Døds Federation. In recent years The Døds World Championship has maxed out its capacity at 3,000 paying spectators whilst being broadcasted internationally.
Classic Dødsing involves competitors jumping from platforms 10-14 meters in height, falling face-first towards the water’s surface whilst committing to a continuous horizontal X position, arms and legs extended. Moments before impact, dødsers assume a hearty taco pose, landing with hands and feet or knees and elbows in order to break their fall and avoid any serious injury. Freestyle Dødsing affords competitors the option of flipping, twisting and expressing themselves within the full creative range of their corporeality, before once again breaking the water’s surface as a tucked foetus. The über casual laid back dives are the best, seemingly unaware or simply unfazed by the fact that they are plummeting towards the surface before suddenly realising they’re about to explode upon impact. You can watch some highlights here.
The Norwegian Swimming Federation does not recognise Døds as an official discipline.
Shrimp Island.
We have a birthday party to get to later this evening and more to see and do before then, so we dry ourselves off and get on a’peddling.
After stopping off at a local european supermarket to purchase picnic items including a bucket-load of frozen Northern shrimp, we catch the ferry to Hovedøya – the closest island to Oslo city centre, home to woodland, a very old monastery, army barracks, and big fluffy sheep. Here on the rocky beach, as the sun begins to set and party boats return to the harbour still blaring music across the fjord, we defrost our bag of shrimp in the lapping waves of the shoreline.
These cold-water shrimp, are found in abundance in the waters of Norway. Pink and u-shaped with bulbous eyes and spindly legs, they are popular across Scandinavia. Sucking out the caviar, twisting off the heads and peeling each one, we pile them on top of slices of hearty rye bread with mayonnaise and lemon juice to create open-faced sandwiches. Smørbrød – literally translating as ‘butter bread’ – is a staple across Scandinavia. The Swedes call it smörgås or macka; the Danes even claim smørrebrød as their national dish; the English make two and put them together and call it a sandwich. Different breads for different breeds, amirite?
Although I am aware that Norway is not Sweden — in spite of Scandinavia merging into one large high-standard-of-living dreamland in my mind — the Swedish idiom, Att glida in på en räkmacka, comes to mind. To slide in on a shrimp sandwich, means to not have had to work for one’s position in life; shrimp being a food of social privilege at the time of inception, and sliding being forever an effortless mode of arrival. As I watch the orange burst of the setting sun spill between the islands, it certainly feels like I’ve slid rather fortuitously into this fruitful moment. Privileged with a local travel guide, ushered between various hotspots to experience otherwise unbeknown idiomatic customs, enjoying an albeit brief slice of Norwegian life without any real planning or exertion on my behalf; fucking delicious.
But alas, it’s time to slide off once again. Back on the ferry to Oslo centre we go. We’re really cramming stuff in and I’m here for it.
Grotto.
We’re already going to be late for this evening’s birthday party but we take a quick pitstop on the way home at Grotto, a pop-up wine bar located in St. Hanshaugen.
Created in collaboration between the folks at Merkur Bar, and Villa Stensberg, Grotto mostly sells wine. Utilising the license and stock overflow from Merkur, Grotto has been briskly brought together in a bare concrete garage, with gravel underfoot and a wooden bar planted at the back. There’s fluorescent tube lighting on the paint-peeled walls, and large oak casks, school chairs and soda crates for sitting. Music is supplied by an 80s stereo perched on top of a fusebox on the side of the wall under a bug zapper. It’s a popup alright. The barmen are knowledgable, accommodating and oh so handsome. We taste test a few glasses of natural white wine before eventually landing on the first one. It’s crisp, cloudy, and smells like sheep. It’s also £28 for two glasses which is almost as much as 40 tax-free negronis. When in Oslo.
Kampen Party.
Ok, we really need to be getting a wiggle on before fashionably late becomes just plain late.
After stopping home to freshen up and collect the remaining 30 or so negronis, we cycle Eastwards to Kampen. I am told the Eastside is the ‘Cosyside’ of Oslo. And sure enough, Kampen is all narrow streets and dinky wooden buildings, with Kampen Kirk – a Gothic and Swiss-style church – taking residence in the middle of the neighbourhood. We arrive at the flat and knock on the door of the birthday girl.
I tend to find it’s appropriate to apologise immediately for being English and speaking no other language than English because I’m from England and I’m terribly English and sorry. The party however is entirely forgiving, even delighted to practice their already excellent English, so we launch quickly and easily into conversations about Nordic names, London rental prices, and how snus can literally burn a hole in your head. Cocktails and snacks are consumed as the party gets later and looser.
At midnight, out comes what I assume to be some kind of traditional Norwegian birthday cake. It certainly doesn’t look like anything we have in the UK. It’s very small and kind of greyish-brown, with an assortment of fruits and leaves and chocolate in and around it. And is that a red chilli protruding from the top? And tea lights? It must be very traditional and steeped in age old myth. But no. It simply turns out they forgot to prepare a cake in advance of the party. This creative little number was rustled up from available fridge and cupboard items including pâté, tomatoes, icing sugar, chocolate and yes, a chilli. We all take a hard pass on a slice, but enjoy the spectacle nonetheless.
Unfortunately, due to the aforementioned COVID uncertainty that surrounded the trip prior travel, the Norwegian-originale will be abandoning me prematurely to catch Oslo’s once-a-week flight to Rome. As such, she needs to leave the party early in order to get 4 hours sleep before heading to the airport. I on the other hand have all the time in the world and am easily persuaded by fellow party guests to stay. So I stay and I make some more drinks.
Somewhen during these early hours of the morning – standing a wee wonky in the middle of the crowded front room – I reflect on the fact that just a few months ago I had never been to Norway, nor had I known a single Norwegian. Now, thanks to a rain shower, I’m in a flat in Oslo surrounded by a whole bunch of tattooed Norwegians dancing to Beastie Boys. It all seems so fortuitous; so totally beyond my control and reckoning.
I didn’t plan this. Never could I have orchestrated the infinitely complex sequence of events that led me to this flat with these people at this moment in time. Was I to hang out under bridges across London, waiting for a particular individual to arrive and engage? Was I to manipulate reality to yield to my will, to adhere to my predetermined notion of how events should play out?
Such behaviour is futile, battling against the infinite unknown on all fronts, desperately trying to control the suchness of what is in an attempt to make it what it is not. It’s like trying to squeeze apple juice from an orange. And yet we seem to be doing this all the time. We set our rules and expectations, we decide what is acceptable and not acceptable and we judge our lives accordingly. When we invariably find that life doesn’t meet the mark, we kick back, we interfere and we get in the way. So much wasted, frantic energy. So much beauty, missed.
But this – this unplanned and unexpected trip to Norway – has all been an unfolding. At a time in my life when letting go has become a priority, allowing aleatory circumstance to play itself out has turned in to a ride that I feel fortunate to be swept away upon. I’ve just been sliding along, remaining open and saying ‘yes please’ when opportunity presents itself. And it’s really quite nice.
Life is always already happening like this. The universe is a fertile field bubbling up at every single moment with infinite possibility. Who are we to decide how it should present itself? After all, these decisions of ours are made by the little mind, based on criteria formulated with arbitrary data collated from an infinitesimally narrow experience of reality. There are far greater forces at play than the capacity of the human mind. So shouldn’t you just let go of how you think things should be and welcome what already is; open up to it fully and see just how far it takes you. There is no need to strive to get anywhere; no need to intervene and control. Life sweeps us in its swell; it is unavoidable. We’re already here, right now, riding the eternal stream of being in all its glory.
I cycle home pretty pished but fortunately it’s downhill from Kampen and I have Google Maps, without which I would be totally, utterly, hopelessly lost. I locate the hidden key for the flat and stumble gracefully up the stairs. And like a relay team at dawn, I enter the front door as the Norwegian is getting up to leave. We take some time to say our goodbyes and for me to express my gratitude for her hospitality. It’s been excellent.
Enjoy Rome, take care, talk soon.
Sundtag.
Safe to say, the remaining 12 hours are far less eventful. Without the privilege of my own personal tour guide, my laissez-faire attitude to the trip reveals its pitfalls.
Walking relatively aimlessly around the local neighbourhood and beyond leads me back to the harbour. And once my phone dies and I lose the lifeline of Google Maps, I get myself butt-fucking lost and end up traversing a little too much of the city by foot; good ground is covered however and I get a real feel for the blister on my left foot. After hopping on a train, a tram, and an e-scooter, I eventually find myself once again. Not where I expected to find myself, but reorientated nonetheless.
After a nap on the balcony and some fish tacos, I endeavour to undertake the fresh ball-ache of meeting the UK’s COVID re-entry regulations – a farcical opportunity for government and private companies to capitalise on the pandemic by monopolising tests which are not checked by British authorities upon re-entry – requirements I became aware of just this morning.
Turns out a little planning and preparation goes a long way… Good to know for next time.
G. P. Kazakos 
Great read George. Got a real feel for Oslo and your travels. x
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