The Finish Line Approaches

On Thursday I will take my final exam for my bachelor's degree.  It's been a long two years, and this semester has been a true test of my time management skills.  And, as usual, I managed to procrastinate spectacularly.  Even now, when I should be making flashcards for my philosophy exam (God, how boring), I am blogging instead.

This semester, my final one, has seen me bored out of my mind through all of January in a Land Rights class, setting off for thesis research in Tanzania (one of these days I'll upload those Mikumi photos again), spending a week sunning and swimming in Zanzibar, and then flying home to finish my ecology class, write my thesis, and study for this philosophy exam (God, how boring). 

Overall, I think I've done rather well.  My supervisors were all happy with the work I did on my thesis, so if I don't get a good grade I don't know what I'll do.  Probably stand and shake my brush at the grading officials through the Internet (please note example below).  I did do a development thesis in the company of a bunch of meat and animal scientists, so the results are rather interesting.

My ecology exam... blech.  I sat the exam less than a week after I submitted my thesis.  My brain was fried. I relied heavily upon the study guide the lecturers provided as I had missed five weeks of class and the Power Points loaded were, well... I guess you kinda had to be there to fully understand everything. In fact, when the exams were placed before us, I sat staring in abject horror for a few minutes.  On an exam with four questions, two were not from the colloquium.  One of my friends said in her room (we're split up and scattered around campus for final exams) four people got up and walked out.  With only four essay questions and three hours of exam time, you have to either know your stuff or be able to bullshit with the best of them.  I usually fall somewhere in the middle of that spectrum.

Anyway, yes, horror.  I stared at the exam sheet for a few minutes, shocked.  Then I picked up my pen and started scrawling basic outlines on my scratch paper.  When the course's two responsible lecturers came into the room to sound out any questions, I sat quietly and looked calmly at them.  But really, on the inside, I felt like this:

I felt like that for several hours and several beers after I finished that exam.  But anyway.  Here I sit, procrastinating.  On Thursday the last exam will be in the bag, and then on Saturday we fly to Spain where we will meet my parents for three weeks of Super Good Fun Times With Parental Units.  I can hardly wait.  I expect when we land at the airport, I may look like something that crawled out of Plato's damn cave.

Hopefully, there will be lots of beer to compensate.

Some Words About...This.

Every year countries in Europe participate in Eurovision, a song contest which has been won by the likes of ABBA and Celine Dion. Eurovision is always a bit of a camp-fest, but this takes the cake.

The contender from the Netherlands took the stage wearing a generic Native American headdress. Her empty-eyed delivery didn't help, and made it appear she is not capable of understanding a faux pas like this.

Cultural appropriation is not acceptable.

Hear me now, I'm not exactly the most politically correct person on the planet. But I am trying to grow in understanding as the years grind by and be less of an asshole. One of the first and most fundamental steps of not being an asshole is accepting and respecting another person's culture.

I have always admired my country's native history. Even as a little girl, one of my favorite books was a gift from my uncle, a collection of Native American folktales. I remember being crushed when, at age seven or thereabouts, a teacher from my summer daycare invited the class to her tribe's pow wow, and then told us only certain parts of the celebration would be open to the public. I wanted to experience everything and stay as long as I could. But as a white girl, the door to that life is closed to me. One of the highlights of our trip across the U.S. last year, for me, was the opportunity to stop at the Crazy Horse Memorial and museum. Though I have always found and read books about various tribes and nations, I know as an adult I do not have the insight or the knowledge to make qualitative statements about any tribe or nation's politics, customs, faiths, or societal concerns.

All of this is a roundabout way of saying I have done my best to not over-romanticize or generalize my nation's own indigenous peoples. So it really gets my goat when some little white girl from the fucking Netherlands plops a terrible headdress on her flowing brown locks, and attempts to soulfully eyefuck the camera while singing in English about...who knows, something not capable of catching my attention in her terrible accent. I leaped out of the couch, pointed at the TV and yelled, “Neeeiii fyyyy!” The Norwegian equivalent of “Not okay!”

Girl.  There is a distinct difference between admiring cultures, and being an asshole hiding behind some excuse of admiration. Or, what is even more likely in this case, just being stupid and tone deaf. 

(Did you see what I did there?)

How would this woman feel if, oh, I don't know, we all wore tulip headdresses, wooden shoes found at, let's say Target, and sang about heartbreak on international TV whilst calling it art? Aside from the fact this would look ridiculous, would she understand that using any nation's cultural heritage as a mere prop, without any frame of reference, is insulting? I cannot and will not try to project what Native American people may think of this. I won't. I will just say, that as an American, even I felt offended. 

Don't do this, girl.  If you want to dress in a traditional manner and at the same time capture the glorious camp that is Eurovision, follow the example of your elders.  Do your own thing. 

Spring in Oslo

I love spring in Oslo.  Suddenly, over the course of a week or two, everything explodes in fresh green leaves and new blossoms.  I couldn't name these trees if I tried, but their white flowers remind me that soon the lilac will bloom, and the giant lilacs behind our apartment building will crown the park nearby with outrageous wands of purple and pink. 

After the harshness of fall and winter, spring and summer in Norway are like gifts, to be treasured and enjoyed to the fullest.  I look forward to my morning walks with Max.  When the weather is fine--not too warm, but enough for the sun to warm your face and hair--we dawdle through our favorite parks. Instead of daydreaming, recently I have taken to pondering my thesis.  It's almost finished, just the discussion and conclusion left before I start a frantic re-write.  Did I mention it's due next week? When I am chained to the kitchen table I get frustrated and call it all sorts of four-letter words, enough to make a sailor blush.  But in the park, with my feet and mind moving, it suddenly doesn't seem such a monster. I hope by the time I am ready to study for my exams (two of those staring me in the face after this thesis is due) it will be warm enough to take my books, notepads, and dog out to wallow in ecology and sunshine throughout the long afternoons.

Sundog

Someone else enjoyed himself during our long walk yesterday.  The beer break provided ample opportunity to sniff, relax in a strip of shade, meet new friends, and beg for pizza crusts.

Holiday

The first of May is the Norwegian Labor Day (and I think just about everywhere else in Europe, but don't quote me).  After a few weeks of miserable weather we were blessed with incredible sun and warmth.  We took the opportunity to go on a long walk and clocked 5.2 miles, circling around Majorstuen, Bislett, Frogner, and back up to St Hanshaugen for a well-deserved break.  People were lounging outside on balconies, and occupied every available sunny green space in the parks. Slottsparken, the palace grounds open to the public, was crammed full of people.   If you stayed inside today and live in Oslo, you are either physically ill or just plain bonkers.

The restaurant at St Hanshaugen opens on May first every year, and is usually packed when the weather is brilliant.  Today was no exception, and they had the severe misfortune of running out of beer at five o'clock.

Fortunately, we got there before that happened.

Consolation

Instagram photos of my favorite pooch are some small consolation for Google and Samsung eating my pictures.

Yesterday we were taking Max for a walk when a man in a black coat and hat brushed past us.

"Did you see that?  The man in the coat and hat?  That was Lillebjørn Nilsen, he's a very famous musician," Sverre hissed in my ear.


Nilsen was on television today, leading Norway in a several tens-of-thousands strong sing-along.  


One of Nilsen's most famous songs in Norway is "Barn av regnbuen," Children of the Rainbow.  It is a translation of Pete Seeger's "My Rainbow Race," and is a well-known children's song in Norway.  During the trial of the 22 July terrorist's case, Anders Behring Breivik stated that "Barn av regnbuen" is an explicit example of "brainwashing," wherein Norwegian children are taught to accept multiculturalism...a trait of the modern Norway he is strongly against.


Well, the Norwegians had something to sing about that.


Today, while the rain pelted down, 40,000 Norwegians took to Youngstorget and the side-streets in Oslo to sing Nilsen's song, led by the man himself, in defiance of all Breivik stands for. They gathered in several other cities around the country at noon, while the bells at Oslo's city hall's bells led the country in song. After the mass sing-along they marched the few blocks to the courthouse and sang again, then laced roses through barriers blocking access to the court house's main doors.  The news has reported that Breivik was told of the singing as he left the courthouse, and will likely see the march on this evening's news. 

Thus Norway responds to a terrorist's ideology.


Today Sverre waited for the bus in the early morning cold with an older woman.  Police motorcycles suddenly shut down the intersection by our building.  A motorcade sped through the intersection, the car bearing Breivik in the middle of a police escort.


"Did you see who that was?" Sverre asked the lady next to him.


"Fysj, Brevik! Den jaevla drittsekken!" She answered.  "Ugh, Breivik, that fucking shitbag."


Something tells me Breivik has failed in getting his message to the masses.