I. “Nicolai, the Teacher”

May 10, 2008
Rena
Nicolai, our Oslo host’s eighteen month old grandson, is a towheaded baby Norse who has provided us with an early theme for this journey. He is being raised in a bi-lingual household, so his chatter is unlike that of any pure English speaking child I’ve heard. There are the low rumblings with the “r” sounds in the back of his throat, and the uniquely Norwegian vowels with diphthongs, all uttered with great joy and a pleasant sing-song. But his most frequent exclamation is simply, “Oy!” Not the Yiddish “Oy veh”; just “Oy.” And he says it with such delight and self-satisfaction.
So do you want to know what “Oy” means? His grandmother says it’s the Norwegian equivalent of “Wow.” Knowing what it means causes me to enjoy Nicolai even more and gives me a word for the first days of this adventure.
There was no “Wow” uttered during our 17 hour flight, which is good. I’ve lowered my flying expectations enough to be grateful when it is uneventful. The only quality offering surprise was that Continental Airlines provides meals at mealtime for no extra charge. That’s almost worth a “wow”, but I don’t want to use such praise too loosely. I almost slept. I wasn’t too squished. My back didn’t hurt too much. And Rose Ann kept reminding me of our ancestor’s sailing for weeks with all their worldly goods never to see their homeland again. So much for complaining.
The wows began with a quiet evening walk in our host’s neighborhood as we tried to shake loose the kinks of flying. Looking at the birch and pine groves in suburban Oslo; overlooking the fjord; seeing the homes with the themes of Scandinavian architecture—straight lines all around, roofs steeply pitched, reds and blues and yellows mixed with browns and plain wood stain, shutters, window boxes, but no frills. Cute homes. Practical homes. Functional homes. We like them. Oy!
After sleeping off jet lag with 11 hours of sack time, we took the bus to downtown Oslo and wandered like tourists for 9 hours by ourselves. The palace, the opera house, Vigner’s sculptures in Frogner Park, the harbor. We walked for miles. Never really lost but often confused we eventually returned to our host’s home with stories of a day well spent. We napped in a park, munched on our knapsacked snacks, and ate Italian for dinner. But the one big wow for the day was the disaster that didn’t happen. I missed a step while stepping back to shoot a picture of Rose Ann posing amid Vigner’s work, and turning around to balance myself realized there were seven more steps to the ground, and in mid-air managed to dance, twirl, and land one-legged on two other steps before hitting the ground on both feet with all bones intact, still alive, thank goodness. It could have been messy. Oy!
Lesser oys were uttered while viewing the ritualized inspection of the guards protecting the palace, all black clad, even with a black plume drooped over their face, while presenting arms to the officer who peered down their barrels looking for something he evidently didn’t find. The newly constructed opera house arising from the harbor making its own bridge onto land was impressive. Oh, and the weather. 70+ degrees with the sun shining all day on the 9th of May. It was absolutely perfect for these sun-worshipping Norwegians to find ways to immodestly expose flesh to areas untouched by sunshine since last August. Small oy.
But now I’m writing this a day later, Saturday evening in the Trudvang Hotel in Rena, after 3 hours on the train to get here. This is where my grandfather, Peter Ronning, was born and baptized and lived until he left for America sometime in the 1800’s. Coming north into this valley we saw snow on the ground and water standing in the fields. Rivers were swollen, but all was lush green with buds and blooming leaves. It’s gorgeous. As the train pulled into Rena, we were greeted by relative Agnes Helgesen, the faithful correspondent who had befriended my mother 35 years ago on her pilgrimage back to Norway and who had helped me make arrangements to be here. Stepping off the train our first sight was the Amot Church about 75 yards away, and our first sound was the musical chiming of its bells. Could they be welcoming us? No. How presumptuous! It’s the night before Pentecost Sunday, a national holiday for the entire weekend, and one of the three times yearly when the bells toll for an hour—Christmas Eve, Easter Eve, and tonight—Pentecost Eve. With the sun lighting the church and the green hills in the background, this little town took on a mythical “cute little Norwegian village” appearance. Agnes brought us to the hotel, and we settled in, ate dinner in a Chinese restaurant because “the ones serving Norwegian food had to close”, according to Agnes, toured the town including the cemetery, and we’re now relaxing while the sun lingers until nearly 10:00 p.m. Tomorrow it’s church followed by a mini family reunion. Oy! (Thanks, Nicolai.)