"Here in Oslo"

With the Anders Breivik trial taking place now, this post of a story I wrote last year when I was in Oslo during the tragedy may be of interest.

Here in Oslo

As the plane descended into Oslo, I scanned the landscape, looking at where my Grandmother may have been born and her Mother certainly was. Grandma was why I came here. Unfortunately, I never learned too much about her past – not even where she was born. Her name was Clara Baggie Sundberg (She married a Swede) and her Mother was named Hannah.
Though I tried before my trip to trace her, all I could find was that she lived in Wisconsin before marrying Carl and moving to Minnesota. She had six children – three girls and three boys. One boy, my Mother’s twin died shortly after he was born, and Grandma’s youngest daughter died giving birth to my cousin. In those days, it was not unusual for women to die during child birth.
I remember her as a tall woman who stood quite majestically until old age incapacitated her. She had thin yellow hair she wove into a single long braid curled into place at the nape of her neck. Her “bun” as she referred to it was fastened with the kind of long, open hairpins that had a golden sheen. She had a somewhat large nose, and a nervous hand gesture – sometimes moving her thumb around and around her forefinger.


Our relationship began just after I was born a girl instead of a boy. My parents had a name ready for a male. When that proved inappropriate, they grabbed probably the most popular name of the time – Judy. But most little girls and some boys in my hometown had two names, like Sara Jane, Mary Lou, or Gary Lee. What to do. My Grandmother liking an actress named Kay Francis, suggested Kay, and so I became Judy Kay. She and a couple other members of my family always called me by the two names.
Grandma lived only about two and a half blocks from my parents and as soon as it was allowed I made many trips to her house. Sometimes my Mother would have me pick-up groceries for her like bread or sandwich meat from the little nearby grocery. I liked going to Grandma’s because she let me do things like set the table or wash the dishes. At home this wasn’t permitted for fear I’d break something. But there were other reasons I liked going there.
Across the street lived Jeffy, a reddish-brown Cocker Spaniel. Since I didn’t have pets at home, Jeffy became my buddy. Often he’d wander off through the wild fields behind his home coming back full of sticker burrs caught and tangled in his silky hair. For hours, he’d lay patiently while I pulled them out, one by one. Together, we created a little animal-human bond.
Grandma’s house was an ordinary wood-frame rectangular box set on end so that it seemed tall. It was certainly nothing special to behold, but the surrounding yard was a wonder. By the front door was a bleeding heart flowering plant that came up every year and through the front window you could see a huge fern set on a wooden stand. I still have that plant stand. Around to the left was a big Catalpa tree with clusters of white fragrant blossoms looking something like orchids. In the spring, their aroma would fill the air around. After the flowers, came long, brown bean-like pods that later I discovered gave the name “Indian Bean or Cigar Tree” to this somewhat exotic species of the trumpet vine family.
We never entered through the front door but always around the right side to what was for a child a remarkable backyard. The first thing one would see is a rectangular dirt mound where every year she planted nasturtiums with yellow, orange and red flowers. I understand now that the leaves are edible though I don’t remember eating any. Further in was an apple tree producing annual fruit.
But the piece de resistance was her “rock garden.” It was just that – one central and four subsidiary lozenge shaped mounds built up of crystalline rocks that sparkled in the light, putting on a dazzling display depending on one’s position and the time of day. Among the rocks were wild flowers and plants like green ferns, white lilies of the valley, purple phlox and violets. It was the sort of garden that a child could imagine fairies living in.
Behind this magic was a pen where hens and one rooster were kept and at the end, a coop where Grandma gathered fresh eggs from straw nests. Near holidays a duck or a turkey might appear for a short time.
Beside the rock garden was a bird bath made of cement ornamented with pottery shards fashioned by her son, my Uncle Revell. Both bees and birds came there. Another “bath” sat in front of a “regular” garden at the back of her yard, and there was another occupying a whole lot beyond the rock garden. Basically, Revell took care of these, planting lettuce, onions, carrots and flowers in the smaller and potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers and corn in the larger. Sometimes for lunch, Grandma and I would go out and pick fresh lettuce for sandwiches she made of white bread, butter, sugar and the lettuce.
There was a trap door opening to stairs leading to a dirt cellar underneath her house where potatoes could be kept in a cool, moist atmosphere for most of the winter. We had a lot of fresh food in those days. The flavors of today’s “organics” cannot compare to “the real thing” grown back then.
It was also in the backyard that Clara and her two daughters – my Mother and aunt – stretched curtains on wooden frames hung from clothes lines. Inside her house on the wood-fed cooking stove and at the table they canned fruit and vegetables. These were as much social as work occasions.
Another fixture of her kitchen was an ice box – precursor of the refrigerator. The “ice man” came every few days, the back of his pick-up loaded with steaming blocks. Another kid who lived nearby and I would run out to meet him, and he’d slice off a chip for each of us. Sucking on the ice was a welcome treat on hot summer afternoons.
Off the kitchen was another room that I remembered as dark where Grandpa slept. I never got to know him well, because he died when I was five. Since we were born the same day, October 19, it would have been good to discover if we shared anything else, but his existence was set in shadows. After thirty years spent working in the local pottery (where his two sons worked as well), Grandpa became a gardener for a well-to-do family. He, too, was good at growing things. The local newspaper reported a couple times on his prize-winning dahlias at the annual flower show competition. On the downside, he liked to drink, sometimes staggering and collapsing in the backyard. My Mother said she and Grandma pulled him into the house lest “the neighbors see it.”
Curtains separated kitchen from living room, and at one time, Grandma had a cat named Buster who liked to jump and swing on them. An adjacent hallway housed a victrola and a wonderful big black and gold clock with decorative side columns. The victrola, an antique form of phonograph was a floor model, the needle arm and turn plate set on top along with a horn that folded under the cabinet cover. Underneath was storage for some old black 78s and a few rust colored, plastic 45s. Cranking a side handle set music in motion.
Decorating the walls of the house were framed pictures Grandma cut out of calendars and newspapers. One was of a lone wolf howling over a baby lamb - a tender scene of protection. Another pictured a small herd of wild horses with black and white ones in the foreground rearing up in fear of a shaft of lightning coming down from the right corner. The one I kept for years was a patriotic poster from World War II, picturing a cherry-lipped, smiling girl with red, white and blue triangular hat perched atop her blond curls
We were a lower middle class family who rarely went on vacations. Trips were limited to rides on another uncle’s boat up the Mississippi and car rides around the countryside. Grandma was always ready to go. She’d drop whatever she was doing when she got a call. The only hitch was that she had to notify everyone in the family and wait until they responded. Being impatient, I hated this as a kid. But she was the matriarch determined to keep her family together.

Since she lived at what was then the western edge of our small town fairly close to the train tracks, hobos and Indians came to her doorstep begging food - especially soup bones, and she accommodated them as best she could. Every time I arrived, she gave me a nickel, a stick of gum, something.
Specific Norwegian customs she preserved were fixing lutefisk every Christmas Eve and using the word “ufdah. For the uninitiated lutefisk is definitely an acquired taste, and to me as a kid, it smelled awful, looked horrible and tasted really bad. It’s a gelatinous concoction made from dried and salted whitefish soaked for days in water and lye before it is boiled and served with pork – for Grandma it was always spareribs.
Growing up, I left my small Midwestern hometown, pursued a career in art as historian/educator/curator, travelled a good bit of the world and settled in Manhattan where I lived with one son, plants and animals. So many years later, I tried to silently communicate with Clara and Hannah. Why had I made this trip? What was I looking for? Where and how would I find it? At this point I knew family was most important to her, that she lived close to nature, that forms of art and music graced her home and that generosity was a habit. I never knew Hannah, my great-grandmother. Only that Grandma, my Mother and my Aunt all claimed “she made bread that tasted like cake.”
***
The trip had originated benignly enough first with my son, his wife and her family in the ruggedly beautiful Connemara country of Ireland. Here my left knee gave way to the long term troubles I’d been having with it, so I saw a doctor who gave me anti-inflammatory pills, and I bought a cane. Using the latter was a necessary but embarrassing and humiliating experience for a person accustomed to years of fitness regimes. Leaving the family in Galway, I went on to London and its art museums. The ride back to London’s Heathrow was a highpoint due to an intelligent, well-informed and verbal taxi driver from Bangladesh. We talked all the way about social and political issues, as I wondered why this obviously knowledgeable man was driving for hire. When we arrived, I got out paying him, offering my hand to shake and telling him how much I enjoyed the conversation. He seemed taken aback. This was my first encounter with an array of interesting strangers.
At the Oslo airport, I was stunned to hear that the express train into the city was undergoing repairs. I would have to take a bus. Tugging my small bag toward the door, a red-faced gentleman caught up with me, and started asking questions. I realized he was hitting on me, but my noncommittal answers caused him to peel off into a bar. I was pleased, though, to have attracted someone.
Two more men helped me find the right bus, asking the driver to tell me where to get off. It was about a 45 minute trip ending near a cathedral. My hotel was on Mollengata Street, and the driver pointed in a direction. But for a stranger, that wasn’t enough. I asked repeatedly until finally a woman said, “Turn left at the yellow building on the corner.
Hotel Comfort Express immediately revealed itself as a preferred spot for travelers in their twenties to thirties, so the young man with gelled hair standing at what appeared an abbreviated podium that served as “check-in” looked at me with curiosity. Room 712 was clean and simple. I took necessities out of my bag and headed to tourist information. I was determined to see a little of Norway’s famed fjords. To my great relief, the attendant told me I could do an overnight or day trip thereby avoiding more lodging cost and luggage schlepping. Taking brochures to help me decide, I walked back to the hotel finding a small Pakastani-run shop to buy what turned out to be a tasteless ham and cheese Panini washed down with two beers bought from the fashionably punk-haired “concierge.”
Next morning, the first order was to head back to tourist info to book a trip. I had determined to take the overnight excursion on the country’s deepest, longest fjord, but I hadn’t decided on whether to leave the next day Friday or wait until Sunday. (Saturday was not possible.) With the clerk, I debated the pros and cons - mainly the weather forecasts for both dates which were the same – rain. Finally, she said, “Go tomorrow. The forecasters are often wrong.”
Satisfied with my prospects, I wandered off to find the street car to the Vigeland Sculpture Park recommended by a friend. A young mother from Ghana helped me choose the right car and stop. She had lived in Oslo for a couple decades, partly with her young son who was desperately curious about me and wanted to speak but couldn’t because he knew only Norwegian. When we three got off – she was taking the boy to play in the park – she thoughtfully pointed out where I could catch a car back.
The large, rolling-hilled park opened up grandly from a central path-axis. This way and all the others led to the centerpiece composed of Gustav Vigeland’s characteristic dramatically intertwined figurative sculptures. Visitors are drawn toward a fountain and totem-like column of twisting, interlaced bodies. Basking on large, surrounding, open areas were bathers enjoying a day of sun. Determinedly, I trudged up the long staircase to the fountain apex, taking photos along the way like everyone else.

Back in town I sought out the Opera House also on recommendation. What a spectacular building, with a series of sloping ramp-roofs that one can climb for views of the city and harbor. Interestingly this structure combines art forms – opera and dance inside with sculptural, participatory platforms outside where the viewer becomes a performer.

To catch the bus next morning, I got up at 4:30 a.m., showering in the little spare stall that frightened me some since there was nothing to steady my wobbly knee. Arriving early at the appointed stop alongside train tracks, I headed back inside the station, deserted except for a number of Black men sleeping on benches. It was apparently their nightly accommodation, and no one disturbed them.
The bus – again a substitute due to track repair - took us to a small, unattended station about an hour away. Now I was worried about catching the right train and finding the reserved seat in a specific car. I didn’t know the system here, so I tried hooking up with a young Asian girl who had a ticket in her hand that looked like mine. Turned out she had opted for the shorter day trip. A train pulled up. I pointed out the right car for her while frantically looking for mine. Finding it and on board the view from my seat was blocked by a window frame and curtain. As soon as we got underway, the young couple across for me – also with no view – jumped into the empty seat behind me.
What I could see of the scenery was beautiful. It was hilly and somewhat mountainous. Maybe this was what attracted Grandma’s family to the American spot they chose that was also dotted with imposing bluffs and bodies of water. After about an hour, we stopped to change to the famous Flam train - its route known for spectacular vistas. Seemed seats weren’t assigned in these cars, so I grabbed a nice window.
An Asian family joined me. The father was very friendly and outgoing, while his son and wife were less so. The boy had a new camera with the big, protruding, phallus-like lens signaling an expensive piece of equipment. The boy looked to be about fourteen - turned out he was on a short vacation before beginning intensive study for an exam. His father told me he and his wife had spent their honeymoon backpacking and camping in this rugged terrain. Recognizing him as an obviously intelligent and confident man who spoke excellent English, I asked him what he did. He responded that he was a criminal and civil lawyer in Hong Kong. Proudly, I told him my son was also an attorney which he in turn told a chagrinned son who was interested in science.
Surveying the passing countryside, the oddest aspect was the isolated house clinging to a mountainside seemingly shunning civilization. But these were not the shacks of poor or otherwise disenfranchised folks. As the Chinese pointed out the homes were big, modern and well cared for. How did they support themselves? He offered that Norway was rich in oil but how would these people have profited from it? Maybe these were “country homes.”
At one point the train halted on the overpass over a steep gorge with rushing waterfall. Though it was pouring rain, everyone got out. I did too, stepping carefully to take a couple pictures, and quickly retreating back toward the train. “No,” an older woman said to me. “Wait, it’s the Norwegian experience.” Just about then, music made its way through the downpour. Then a woman in a long crimson robe appeared on a rocky ledge and took a dramatic pose. She did this three times on as many craggy outcroppings, the music ceased and we all got back on board having witnessed the “experience.”
Afterward, looking out the window at yet another lone house stuck precariously on a mountainside, I suggested to the boy that maybe these were just stage sets that could be hastily put up when the tourist train came by and taken down afterward. He smiled, and then offered, “Maybe they have a computer and can just click to raise the walls.” We laughed at this. I told his father the story that his son and I had conjured. He was delighted and the boy smiled shyly and proudly. Now I was his best friend.

This train ride stopped along the interior end of the longest, deepest fjord where the boats gathered passengers. The location had drawn a little, conspicuously tourist-oriented village consisting of half dozen gift shops and at least that many restaurants. When I sat down with one of Norway’s long sausage sandwiches, the boy came grinning after me. He was obviously still pleased with what I told his Dad. He asked me what I was eating, declaring “I will get the same,” and ran off.
With nothing else to do in the rain, like everyone else there I shopped for a few presents. Finally I saw people lining up under umbrellas beside a boat, and I joined them in the downpour. Whole groups began to go in together, and the woman beside me pushed to be one of them but the ticket-taker wasn’t having it. He held her back behind me. The top deck looked ideal, but halfway up I could see it was already crowded, so I chose a window seat below.
After awhile, a couple took the two seats beside me. They were a fit, good-looking pair probably in their mid-to-late forties. She struck up a conversation asking where I was from, and then not believing I was American. Later I wished I’d asked why she so firmly rejected my origin. Instead we talked about her two daughters and her ambitions as a triathlon athlete beginning what promised to be an interesting chat.
About half hour or so into the trip, I suddenly became aware of two big TV screens set up in front. They showed a reporter standing on a city street and with a strip running below announcing an explosion in Oslo. I thought maybe it was a gas explosion, but pretty soon, the same strip said it was a bomb. That much Norwegian I could make out. The woman beside me translated that it was a “huge” explosion. Her daughter called on her cell to see if she and her husband were okay.
Then the screens showed the little yellow building that marked the turn onto my hotel street. At first I thought it must be another yellow structure, but the more it was shown and as cameras cruised down the little street, I realized it was my street. “Damn, the hotel must have been destroyed,” I thought. The woman tried to comfort me telling me the hotel was probably okay. Then she and her husband got off at one of the several stops the boat made. Later I regretted the interruption and not getting to know them better, but I had become frozen with anxiety. Now I was talking to Clara and Hannah big time. “Thank you for putting me on this boat instead of in the hotel street. But why this now while I’m here? What are you trying to tell me? I’m going to need your help getting back.”
It was hard to focus on our smooth glide down this largest fjord. Rain was heavy outside. Some young kids ventured out on the foredeck, bracing their bodies against the wind and water. It was a little like being in a submarine. The inward-turning atmosphere only contributed to my apprehension. The boat forged onward, stopping now and then and passing breathtaking vistas of mountains, waterfalls and the occasional house. The water was dark, not only because of the sky, but reflective of the very deep glacial gorge it filled.

After about an hour, the TV began to show an island. “The perpetrator must have escaped there, and they’re pursuing him,” I thought. The news switched back and forth to anxious looking reporters standing in front of streets filled with broken glass, police manning barricades, bloodied civilians hit by debris and this island that was named Utoya according to the caption.
Another woman moved into my seat bank. She was Italian – I could tell from my limited knowledge of the language she used talking with two other women in front of us. She seemed somewhat peeved when I got up to find the toilet, to get water, and as we seemed to approach our destination – a sandwich. It was close to 8 p.m., and I didn’t know where the night train back to Oslo would be or if I could get food anywhere.
At the dock, there were no trains or tracks in sight. I thought this was going to be simple and convenient. I started hobbling as fast as I could after passengers who seemed to be heading in one direction. They must be going to the train. Then I lost sight of them, so I started asking passersby. In about half an hour I found the station, but my train wouldn’t leave for another 2 hours. Inside most shops were closed except for one of Norway’s omnipresent 7-Elevens.
When I bought more water from the young clerk, I tried to get information on Oslo. To my surprise, he told me that a few people, maybe 8, had been killed by the explosion, but that another 80 had been shot by a lone gunman on the island of Utoya. “Something like that could never happen here in Bergen,” he said confidently. “Hey, I retorted, “It wasn’t supposed to happen in Oslo.”
Waiting on one of the station’s wooden benches, I tried to watch fellow passengers straggling in. The train track was listed, eventually a train appeared and a few workers started walking around it. “Oh oh,” I felt the urge to use a bathroom again, and not wanting to be jostled about in a small, smelly train compartment I looked around for one in the station. Following a sign, I went into a narrow hallway filled with four or five young people sitting on the floor in front of the WC. But the toilet doors were coin operated. Noticing my distress, one young fellow said, “Don’t worry. Use that one. It’s always open.” He was right, but I wondered why they chose this dank little corridor as their meeting place. Apparently they knew it well. Exiting, I thanked him again, to which he replied with not a little gallantry, “It was my pleasure.”
One thing I had already noticed in London and now Norway was the politeness of the people. It didn’t matter if it was a fellow traveler, a shop keeper or a bystander. They all reacted to my questions with, “Of course,” “Sure,” or “Absolutely.” It wasn’t like that in New York. I’d spent years defending the city when strangers remarked on its “rudeness,” but now I realized they were right. Plus I’d also noted the cleanliness of other cities in comparison to my adult hometown.
Finally, a barricade was removed and we could get on the train. Luck of the draw, my reserved seat would travel me backwards. I watched the opposite seats hoping I could exchange, but just before we left, three young people took them. They were a handsome trio, well dressed in what appeared to be the latest skiing garb. She was a pretty blond girl, the younger man was attracted to her and the slightly older man obviously enthralled the girl. The older one sat in the middle, and as the train raced through the darkness, she laid her head on his shoulder.
Blankets and blindfolds were provided, so I put it all on and tried to sleep. A couple hours into the trip, the trio’s leader jostled the other two awake. They gathered their things, the train stopped briefly seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and they got off.
Now was my chance. I eased over into her seat by the window. Not long after the woman beside me took my seat. Now we were all comfortable.
As usual, given the track repairs, the train stopped outside Oslo, and we all tramped onto buses. My fear was rising now, and as luck would have it, my bus had a bad transmission. It barely chugged up hills, as the other two buses shot past.
In Oslo at 6 a.m. and beside the train station once again, the city seemed empty. The rain had returned and was heavy, so I went inside. Near the doors, a few of us waited as the heavens opened. Soon I got antsy and set out in the rain. “Norway is crying,” I thought as I tried to manage umbrella and cane, and pleaded, “Clara and Hannah I need your help now.”
Approaching the corner with the little yellow building, I could see that it was barricaded and manned by the military. This guard like three more at subsequent barricades kept telling me to ask if I could pass at the next. Finally, I said, “I need medication that’s in my hotel,” a strategy I’d devised while waiting on the boat. I thought a woman my age, white hair with cane would be believed. The young man walked over to talk to his commander, and I went with him. “Get a taxi,” they said.
Turning around to empty streets, there were no cars, people or taxis. I started back toward the police when “voila,” one of Oslo’s black cabs came down the street. Hailing him with my cane, he stopped and I told him I wanted to go to Comfort Express Hotel. He drove east and then north as I thought he would until we came out at the block above the hotel. “The owner just arrived,” the cabbie told me. “That’s him by the car.” I have no idea how he knew this.
There was a wire fence, but no guards, so I slipped through at the end, walking up to the very tall man – many Norwegians, male and female are exceptionally tall. He was talking on his cell standing next to a big SUV.
“I was staying at your hotel. My things are in there, and I need medication.”
“Okay, I will have someone pack your things and bring them out for you.”
“Great.” I was relieved. Even though when traveling I always carried the necessities – passport, billfold, tickets – on my body, it was a comfort to get my other things. What’s more, after hours of waiting to see what would transpire, something finally was happening.
“What’s your room number?”
“712.”
He spoke to someone, and in minutes a young man came down. I forgot I had the key to my suitcase which I kept locked when not in residence. I handed him my key ring, and he presented me with three bags of vitamins and a bottle of water. Evidently, the owner had told him I needed medicine. Embarrassed at having my lie exposed, I said I didn’t need them immediately.
As we waited, I asked the owner about his hotel. Turned out though the front plate glass and some ornamental metal beams had been broken, the hotel was structurally intact. He told me that it had been recently opened and that this building was one of a chain he and his partner had begun opening early in the year. His idea he told me was to figure out “what tourists didn’t need.” They could then offer rooms at a lower price by cutting down on supplies and overhead. I told him I thought it was a “genius idea.” Maybe I overstated it in my anxiety, but I did believe people like me wouldn’t mind not having their towels and sheets changed every day.
The young guy came down with my suitcase, the owner loaded it into his car and took me straight to another hotel – actually a more expensive and full service one nearer the train station – where he must have secured arrangements for his now homeless hotel guests. Police would cordon off the entire area for several days.
At the reception desk the young clerk told me his cousin had “swam for his life” from Utoya. Because of the size of the city and the country, it quickly became clear that everyone knew someone or knew someone who knew someone involved in the tragedy. He gave me keys to what turned out to be a tiny room on the 11th floor and told me I could have the free breakfast in their dining room.
I rode the gleaming glass and brass elevator to my floor looking down at the huge dining area. At the top, my room was a small but comfortable garret. After taking a shower, I tried but wasn’t able to nap. Too much adrenaline flowing. So I went down to check the breakfast. They had everything: waffles you cooked yourself, sausages, eggs, fruit, yogurt, cereal, cheese, bread, etc. Knowing that my new quarters had a small refrigerator, I stocked up for dinner trying to hide cheese and bread in napkins. Nobody appeared to care one way or the other, so on other mornings, I grabbed more.
Restless, I walked out onto the street, got my bearings and headed up the main street called Karl Johans Gate. As I walked near the cathedral I saw a small cluster of people placing flowers off to the side of the entry.
I decided to head north and east to an area that housed little craft shops according to a tourist brochure. Maybe I could find gifts there. Like my Grandmother, I liked giving. So I set out, but soon lost my bearings. Everyone I asked seemed to tell me a different direction, so finally I started to backtrack. The rain started up again, and most every store was closed anyway. Back by the cathedral, the bed of flowers had grown to about a ten foot circle. A few people stood around, quiet, their heads bowed.
A drink seemed in order, so I started to try to find a bar not crowded with other tourists. There didn’t seem to be any liquor stores, and all the super markets were closed. Eventually, I happened on a bar around the corner from the train station that looked like it was frequented by a few locals. When the barmaid negotiated my card through her old machine, I ordered rum and coke – “a double.” Then I sat alone at a table and wrote a few postcards. This was a habit acquired from my Mother who when we took a rare short trip out of town, always wrote cards to three or four family members. This tradition I carried on writing to 25-30 people on every trip. Years before it was cheap to send a card - by this time it had gotten expensive – maybe a dollar plus per card. However, people seemed to enjoy being thought of, and I knew that I liked receiving cards from friend-travelers.
Afterward, I went back to the hotel and asked the receptionist if he knew of any place where I could buy wine or beer. Of course, he said the room mini-bar, and I protested the expense. Then he said supermarket and that there might be one open in the train station. Huh! I didn’t think of a market there. Searching the premises, I found the big one that was closed but wandering into a connected mall, there was another smaller store. They had beer!
Back in the room, BBC was all over the Oslo situation, but I switched back and forth among the British and local stations. Already I had learned with not a little relief that the perpetrator was white, not Black as a good part of the world might not only have expected but welcomed. Pictures were appearing now of a native Norwegian whose name was Anders Behring Breivik. “What a nice looking young man,” I thought first seeing this blond 32-year-old posed casually and fashionably in yellowish shirt and black sweater. Why would someone good-looking and apparently at least somewhat aware of the world around him want to wreck that much havoc? He looked like he could have been a model. Certainly, he did not appear to be crazed, hallucinatory, deranged or a reclusive misanthrope.
Typically, the media coverage repeated the footage chosen to attract attention: the photo of the killer, pictures of the island dotted with white sheets covering bodies, and views of Oslo streets filled with broken glass. Intermittently, there would be interviews with bloodied bystanders, island escapees and with police officials who seemed pretty savvy in holding many press conferences. If they spoke Norwegian, sometimes there would be captions, sometimes not. The emergent story was the same: A man had set an explosion in Oslo, then donning a police uniform he moved swiftly to the island of Utoya where a “youth camp” was being held and where he shot every kid he could find. He even aimed into piles of dead bodies in case someone was hiding beneath and at the kids who tried to swim away. Evident was his planning. He had stockpiled fertilizer at his farm in order to make explosives, he chose a public building hoping to kill the Prime Minister as well as others, and he put on a police uniform in order to deceive the young people.
Such carefully laid plans indicated a very strong focus which in Breivik’s case was political. He went after the Prime Minister because of his liberal position and after a likewise liberally oriented youth camp – an annual affair devoted to young people’s discussions of democracy and other issues. In particular, Breivik had ruminated about Muslim immigration to his country that had historically taken pride in its open, democratic policies. Though the Muslim immigrants made up only a small percentage of the population, they did constitute the biggest non-Norwegian segment. According to the police and his lawyer, Breivik, fueled by right-wing, conservative blogging in America thought he was “saving” his country. Technology that had helped create the “Arab spring” had here resulted in a deadly summer. The attorney added that he thought the prisoner was “insane.” Perhaps most shocking to Norwegians was the fact that “one of their own” had attacked the very institutions and convictions that identified and defined them as a nation.
Sunday, I resumed my museum tour by setting out for and reaching the Edvard Munch Museum. A modernist 1960s box-like structure next to a botanical garden and natural history museum – the setting seemed opposed to the quite tortured feeling of the art work. Though I always admired Munch, I was further fascinated by the range of his creativity in printmaking as well as painting. He had cut out parts of a wooden block in order to juxtapose colors and his application of paint – alternately thin and dry or thick and juicy – was at times careful and in other instances fast and loose. Mostly, he used cross-hatched or parallel strokes of the brush, and for certain images he seemed to slap paint on canvas with unbridled vigor and emotion.
Afterward, drained as usual from so much visual stimulation, I wandered over into the park and through greenhouses looking at tropical plants and flowers. At one point I asked a middle-aged, kind of scruffy-looking man who had a camera to use mine in taking a photo of me next to some plant life. Before he did, he said, “Everyday I photograph flowers.” “That’s great,” I responded thinking to myself, “Wow, what a wonderful way to spend a life.”
Wandering back to town and hungry, I stopped in a little 7-eleven and ordered one of the long sausages. I chose a mottled as opposed to a smooth skinned one. The clerk said, “Hamburger?” Aha, so it wasn’t sausage after all. But biting in, it certainly didn’t taste like beef – more like pork.
Monday, all the museums were closed. Though I assumed I wouldn’t be able to get in, I started up to the National Gallery, passing the ever increasing expanse of floral tributes by the cathedral, plus the burgeoned presence of media vans, tents and trucks. The museum was right off Karl Johans, and sure enough it was closed. So I wandered south and slightly west past Oslo University and toward City Hall. Along this route, there were many stores but most were still closed except for a few tourist places.
A sweater was a personal goal gift, and in one shop there was a red Scandinavian looking number for about $60. This was a much better price than any others I had seen – probably because it was cotton, not wool. Since I’d always avoided wool as too scratchy anyway, I bought it, plus several pairs of men’s socks with moose on them as gifts. I had noticed on my several bus rides that in Norway there were “Moose Crossings,” rather than “Deer Crossings,” so it seemed an appropriate souvenir-type present.
Beyond the large castle-like city hall was a little harbor. Having grown up near and always liking bodies of water – all those trips on the Mississippi - I walked along it passing some ancient-appearing walls in the process.
Back in the hub near the station, I bought a small rose plant. It was impossible to remain aloof from the overwhelming mood of connectivity. Trudging back to the cathedral through another bout of rain and around the quite large, gathered crowd, I slipped under the chain link fence that had become useless guarding a grassy lawn that was now a muddy plot. Setting my little pink flower at the edge of the floral sea punctuated with lit candles, teddy bears , photos, flags and messages, I stood back to view the solemn group as well as the myriad of media trucks and reporters toting gigantic cameras on their shoulders and thrusting microphones into people’s faces. You could hear the rain fall.

Back in the hotel, all the stations were focused on the arraignment of Breivik at court. Media had gathered from China, Dublin, London, America and elsewhere. There were views inside the courthouse of police and others standing around waiting. Finally, there appeared two plain, black vehicles led by one motorcycle in front, followed by one behind. It was hard for me to believe when it was announced that this was the cortege carrying the prisoner. In NYC, entire city blocks would have been “frozen,” there would have been helicopters churning up the sky, multiple armored vehicles and a whole cavalcade of heavily armed cops lining the streets, peering from atop of buildings and riding four or five abreast on cycles. Having witnessed many of these displays of strength, it was amazing to see this understated arrival.
That night, a “Vigil against Violence” was held in front of the government building I had walked by earlier. I watched on television as hundreds of thousands of people from all over the nation gathered in a show of solidarity for their shared beliefs in an open, democratic society. This was such a contrast to my experience in New York and America after 9/11. There were no angry outbursts, threats and vows to kill - no outcries against people of other religious, political or social persuasions. Instead, entertainers led the crowd in what were apparently well-known songs and politicians or officials spoke about unity and the proudly held values of Norwegian people. No, I don’t understand the language and there weren’t always sub-titles, but the mood of moral and spiritual unity was unmistakable.
Almost every person present in this sea of sadness carried a red or white rose, raising the flowers whenever something meaningful was said or sung. It was a moving sight that brought tears to my eyes thinking about all those young lives lost, the terror experienced by them and those who had survived and the families suffering unspeakable loss.


My last full day in Oslo, I went back to the now-open National Gallery. Though it contains a light smattering of historical and Modernist works as well as a good representation of Norwegian artists, this place mostly depends upon its own rich holdings of native son Munch’s paintings, including “Madonna,” “Puberty,” and “The Scream” (returned after its theft a couple years ago).
Desperate now for a gift for my son and daughter-in-law, I found an odd little salt and pepper shaker/grinder that seemed to me to epitomize the smoothly simple lines and pure colors of Scandinavian design. Sure enough, the clerk said it was conceived by a Norwegian design group. She went on to say that if I was interested in local concepts I should visit the Center for Norwegian Design a few blocks away. Turned out it was loaded with slick, curvilinear and unadorned objects, but in the end I went back for the $83 (!) salt and pepper.
Next I headed for the Contemporary Museum immediately identifiable by its Richard Serra sculpture in front. They had a show of installations that ran the gamut of that genre. One artist had made a piece he called “Bird in Space” – the title recalling sculpture by Constantin Brancusi. The installed version entailed the bird’s taped flight recorded from a camera attached to a pigeon. Another work called “The Wells” consisted of recorded views down into a well projected on the museum floor. These art works might seem inconsequential, even meaningless given the immediate disaster here and in light of a larger global accommodation of subterfuge and bigotry. Increasingly in my musings about American artistic modernism, “silly” was gaining credence as an appropriate word. On the other hand, perhaps such art absolutely reflected the social confusion, politically wrecked havoc and grand absurdity of the modern world at large.
After a glass of white wine in a bar near the train station, I returned to the hotel to pack and watch the beleaguered police hold yet another press conference. People are wondering why it took so long – over an hour – to get to Utoya, why there was no helicopter available to take them there, and why an overloaded police boat had to be aborted for a private boat. There were also questions about why Brevick hadn’t been under surveillance and whether or not he acted alone. Finally, one officer simply said, “You know we’re only human beings under these uniforms.” In fact, they were a small force with minimal equipment because no one ever thought a disaster of this magnitude could happen here.
My final morning, I had some coffee and then set out for the airport bus beside the train station. As I approached, I noticed a crowd of people in front. Someone told me, “They’ve evacuated the station because of a bomb scare.” Welcome to the 21st century.
As usual, the bus runs to a train station about half hour outside the city. There we’re supposed to catch a train, but there aren’t any due to the Oslo station bomb scare. So what now? Someone apparently in charge yells out that everyone will have to take taxis. This instruction appeared ludicrous in a little town where there seemed to be taxi service of 2-3 cars for the remaining 45 minute drive to the airport. Obediently, we lined up, standing for about twenty minutes, when another attendant yelled that buses were coming as a double-decker version drove up.
Choosing a seat beside a nice-looking Norwegian man preoccupied with his cell, I watched as authorities came on board and took a young Black man who apparently doesn’t have a ticket off the bus. “Oh no,” I thought, “I don’t have a ticket either.” But I am white. Told we’d buy them at the train station, I forgot about it when we were told to board taxis and then buses. As it turned out no one ever checked for tickets except for the Black kid who was thought to be suspicious-looking.
As we settled into the trip, my seating companion and I began conversing. Turns out he’s a manager for a relatively new inland fish farming company. He’s on his way to South America having just returned from the states where he says the Oslo incident was all over the papers. His daughter who was supposed to go to the Utoya camp had elected to go to Greece instead. Her father was at first perplexed and now relieved by her decision. Once again, everybody had a story and knew someone close to the havoc.
In the process of leaving, my Grandmother and her Mother were in my mind, and after telling this stranger that I had come to Norway because of them, I began to question him anxious that my trip hadn’t revealed enough information.
“What does “ufdah” mean? Do you still use this word?”
“Yes, it means like ‘oops.’”
“Do people still eat lutefisk here?
“Yes, of course, all the time. We have it on holidays.”
“My grandmother used to serve it on Christmas Eve with spareribs.”
“We don’t eat it so much at Christmas, but on other family occasions with probably pork roast.”
He added, ”We don’t open gifts and celebrate so much on Christmas Day, as we do Christmas Eve.”
Surprised, I said, “That’s what we did too. We always went to Grandma’s on Christmas Eve and opened our gifts. We never did it the next day.”
Then, I pondered out loud, “I wonder where she got the lutefisk.”
“She probably made it.”
“How stupid can I be,” I thought, “of course she made it.” To me it had seemed so strange, so exotic, that it had to have been imported from elsewhere.
Afterward, I wondered why I asked such mundane questions, when in fact I had learned more important things that didn’t have to do with a word or a food. I had observed a kinship with flowers and nature as well as an open and polite attitude toward foreigners. But most significantly, I had witnessed an indomitable spirit, a unity and a positive sense of human purpose.
Arriving at the airport, I wished my fellow bus passenger luck in catching his plane and wandered around trying to decide what to do for the next two hours. “Really, in the future you must force yourself to wait until nearer the takeoff time.” A young Black man with dreads had laid out two babies taking up as many benches. My sore knee was tired, so I walked up and he moved one child. His white wife came back bearing water. They both were vigilant over the soundly sleeping children.
Across from us, a couple walked up to sit on stools at one of the high dining tables for on-the-move travelers. She looked to be in her late twenties and him to be in his early forties. He was red-faced, anxious-looking and all over her. His hands caressed her back, her buttocks, her chest and breasts. He leaned in to kiss her. Through it all, she seemed reserved, holding back, barely tolerating his advances. When the mixed couple carried their kids off, her eyes followed the Black man. The boyfriend looked too in dismay. Obviously, the whites were bound for breakup - he was much too desperate.
Shortly before the flight counter opened I bought water and a sandwich, thinking that there might not be any refreshments before the stop in Iceland. I was right.
As the plane lifted past the masses of pine trees, I invoked Clara and Hannah again. I knew they had been here in Oslo with me. “I did bring you back,” I told them. “My eyes have been your eyes, and you showed me who you were, who I am even through chaos.”