NORWAY

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We got back to Spain on Wednesday after a really nice week in Norway. I'll let our (far too many) pictures tell the story of our adventures, but a few random observations:

  1. The Norwegian Krone will crush your soul. Currency exchange rates always have the potential to blow your mood. Between the continual mental math that takes twice as long as you're sure it should, and the deflated optimism when you realize how much you're actually paying, it's not always a joy to spend in foreign markets. But nowhere has that been more true than in Norway. Holy expletive. First of all, one U.S. dollar buys multiple kroner, which means even the cheapest items feel absurdly expensive to start with — almost all prices have 3 digits. Couple that with the fact that things are actually absurdly expensive, and you'll want to permanently lock your wallet. Either that or dump out all your cash and credit cards and just get it over with. Examples:
    • We took a 1.05 mile cab ride (yeah yeah, we could've walked...but it was pouring; see Point 2) that cost 175 Kroner...a whopping $26.
    • Our first night in Oslo, we had dinner at a Mexican restaurant (see Point 3) that consisted of 2 margaritas, 6 tiny tacos, and chips & guac, which rang in at 945 kroner...or $115. Because we were all still starving after eating the world's most expensive appetizer, we walked around the corner to top-off at a fast food Chipotle-equivalent, where we plopped down $50 for two burritos and two beers. 
  2. The people of Bergen are in a necessary state of denial about their weather. Among other things, Bergen is known for its rainfall. Situated on Norway's North Atlantic coast, it racks up more than its fair share of precipitation — about 89 inches a year with an average daily chance of rain bouncing between 60% and 80% — so we weren't surprised to be greeted by a heavy downpour when we arrived on Friday night. Our AirBnB hosts quickly assured us that there was no rain in Saturday's forecast, which came as a welcome surprise. ...So we were puzzled when we ventured out the next morning to find constant, day-long, spitting drizzle. Maybe they'd gotten the forecast wrong? Nope. A grocery store clerk clarified it for us later in the day, when — as I stood in line in a dripping raincoat with a wet umbrella — he, too, told us we were lucky we'd come on a day it wasn't raining. (What?!) When I took issue with his meteorological assessment, he simply replied: "Nah, that's not rain." 
     
  3. Norwegians have an unexpected affinity for Mexican food. I'm not sure why this struck me, but for a country whose gastronomic specialties include reindeer and whale meat, I was taken aback by the amount of grocery store shelf space devoted to Old El Paso. Literally, half an aisle. Sometimes when you're shopping with a grocery list in one hand and the Google Translate app open in another, you welcome those little glimpses of home. (Of course, between the import premium and the exchange rate, you couldn't leave with tortillas that cost less than $8.)

All in all, it was a great trip. But maybe one of the most surprisingly nice parts about it was coming home — not because we didn't like Norway, but because it was the first time we'd left Barcelona and come back...to a house that's set up and streets that we recognize and a culture we're starting to understand. Even the Spanish sounded a little more familiar. (Ahh, if only familiarity led directly to fluency...)

BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING IT

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Spaniards are serious about their August vacations. At least 70% of the stores around us are currently closed for 3+ weeks and 100% of them have shorter business hours. So in the spirit of embracing all things European, and since vacationing has taken on an arms-racey kind of vibe, we're going on holiday, too. We're headed to Norway tomorrow morning where we'll spend a couple of days in Oslo, a couple days in Bergen, and then a few more in "Fjordland" (Aaron's name for the unpronounceable). Though Eliza was especially worried that this was the start of another nomadic escapade, we're all looking forward to another little adventure...this time with properly equipped suitcases and a sufficiently settled home base to return to.

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: THE SPANISH SCHEDULE

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The Spanish schedule is…how do you say...special. We got a preview of its distinctiveness as tourists in 2014, but it’s a whole different ballgame to real-life live it. Four weeks in and we're still trying to figure out how the days are supposed to work.

For one, there’s the siesta. Mythbuster: people don’t take 2-hour naps in the middle of the day. But they do take excessively long lunch breaks that necessitate the closure of nearly every store you’d want/need to visit between 2:00ish and 5:00ish. (My colleagues eat an early and much abbreviated midday meal that begins promptly at 1:00 and ends always with coffee at 2:00; I’m in the process of retraining my stomach not to start growling at 11:30.) While the siesta seems like an okay idea in concept — who doesn’t want a little midday break? — it has a domino-like effect on the rest of the day.

For instance, the siesta isn't just an informal and unspoken lunchtime ritual; it's a legally mandated break. Rather than the American nine-to-five, the typical Spanish workday incorporates the 2-hour siesta and instead goes from 9:00 to 7:00. Great if you have two hours worth of lunch-eating to do everyday; less great if you want to, say, see your kids. And there's a political movement afoot to say sayonara to the siesta for precisely that reason. (Note: I do not have to keep Spanish work hours, so consider this observation, not complaint.)

But it doesn't end there. If you just ate lunch at 2:00 and didn't get home from work until after 7:00, when are you going to have dinner? Evidently, not until about 10:00. Aaron and I made dinner reservations on Spain's version of OpenTable last weekend (see below). There were no 8:30 reservations (because the restaurant was obviously not yet open), and they were offering a whopping deal to any suckers who'd take the 9:00PM early bird slot. Welp, suckers we were, and totally uncool we felt. We were the very first people in the restaurant by a solid 45-minute margin.

I'm just not yet sure how people here do it. Spanish days are way longer than I'm used to, but schools and jobs still start at 8:30 or 9:00. It's like no one ever gets tired. Eventually (maybe?) our Circadian rhythm will adapt. Until then, I'm just pretty grateful that the Spanish schedule seems to have rubbed off a bit on Owen and Eliza, who now eat dinner with us at 7:00 or 8:00 and stay up till 9:00 or 9:30. Better still, the kids we used to fight so hard to keep in their beds until 6:45am now routinely stumble out of their rooms at 8:30 or 9:00am. So fine, Spanish Schedule, I don't get you but I do kinda like you.

MAKE NEW FRIENDS

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After 8 consecutive weeks of having only his sister to play with, Owen finally decided that it's time to make some friends. He told us, for instance, that while he liked the idea of going to Finding Dory at the English theater, he'd prefer to wait until he's started school and can bring his new friends. (What 4-year-old postpones popcorn and candy?) And while precious, there are few things that tug harder at your maternal heartstrings than watching your kid bring a baseball and glove to the park and disclose that he "didn't bring this to play with you, Daddy; it's so I can play with a new friend." (Ughhh. So sweet...but wrong sport.)

Owen seems to have picked up on what we're all thinking: the thing that will ultimately make Barcelona feel like home and not like another stop on our Grand Adventure is having a little community of people. Luckily, we scored a few playdates over the last 2 weeks — both for children and adults — with colleagues who've taken pity on us and lovely expats who uniquely understand where (in every sense) our family is right now. Aaron and I used the opportunities to ask rapid-fire questions about pressing topics like which pediatrician to use, where to mail a letter, and how LaLiga soccer (perdóname, fútbol) standings work. The kids relished in the chance to socialize with non-sibling playmates. (And much to Owen's delight, our most recent playdate included 5 little girls — none of whom spoke English, but all of whom effectively communicated their desire for him to chase them around the yard.) 

THE TROUBLE WITH SPANISH

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The trouble with Spanish is that I don't know it.

All those semesters of high school and college French and Italian ne sont pas helping me talk to molte persone in Barcelona. My hand-gestures-per-spoken-sentence ratio is sharply on the rise and the number of thumbs-ups I've given in the last week makes me feel like a dorky early-90s tee-ball coach. As the NYTimes pointed out a few weeks ago, only about a fifth of people in Barcelona speak conversational English, and most of them seem to work near the touristy city center — i.e., not where we live. My lack of language makes every transaction a little more complicated (and frankly, embarrassing) and is a definite motivator to figure this out. I start one-on-one tutoring twice a week in September (a perk of the job), but until then, charades it is. 

Besides the language barrier, the first week here has been excellent. Aaron's parents arrived mere hours after the movers had finished up — a preplanned trip that was meant to happen weeks after we'd arrived and settled in...oops. Luckily for us/unluckily for them, their visit has meant we've had double the number of adult hands to unpack and set up (thanks, Mark and Cyn!). While I worked, the three adults made dozens of trips to shop for groceries and home improvement-y things and new electric appliances (the different voltage meant we needed to make glamorous purchases like a new toaster/hair dryer/vacuum/iron/coffeemaker/etc.), and the apartment is really feeling like home.

The kids, meanwhile, have spent a maximal amount of time wearing a minimal amount of clothing, and still have yet to tire of the hoses on the terraces. We'll take advantage of their watering proclivities by buying some plants and planters at the garden store this week.

I travel by train to Madrid tomorrow for my first "work trip" — not a bad destination, other than the 103 degree high they're expecting. I'm not sure starting a new job 36 hours after moving into your new home in a whole new country is what I would've picked for myself (oh wait; it's not what I picked for myself), but it's made better by the fact that the whole new country takes a four-week vacation three weeks later. August, I love you.