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The Swede Life

(mis)adventures abroad in Sweden

Posts Tagged ‘study abroad’

Reindeer, boxes, and an Ambassador

Tuesday, February 15th, 2011

All I could see was a box.

I was sitting with United States Ambassador to Sweden Matthew Barzun at Stortorget – the Växjö residence of Kronoberg County Governor Kristina Alsér – and was staring at a large paper box in front of me.

“We’re here to think outside the box,” Barzun said to an assembled group of about 15 Swedish high school and university students, all dressed like they had been posing for a Calvin Klein campaign.  The Ambassador had just stressed the need for Swedish and American businesses to think creatively, but all I could think of was the lunch sitting inside that box. I swore then and there I would never eat just a banana and Pop-Tarts for breakfast again.

With a sweep of his bear-like hands, the Ambassador indicated that it was time to eat. He also said something else, but I was too famished to notice.

Inside the box was a sandwich wrap. It didn’t look like much, but I tucked into it merrily nonetheless. I bit into it, and suddenly realized it wasn’t beef: it was reindeer. Santa Claus would have been outraged.

“We need to be open to engagement [with other countries],” said Barzun, seemingly unconcerned by the perplexed looks shared by the students. “America is an idea, and we need to keep that idea in people’s minds.”

Makes sense, I thought. Engage local populations to let them ask questions and voice their concerns about U.S. policy. The program that brought the Ambassador to Växjö on this surprisingly warm February day, dubbed the “U.S. Embassy in a Box Roadshow,” was definitely proof of that.

As I dug into a dessert of lingonberry mousse, the Ambassador fielded questions about U.S. policy and business. Much of the conversation focused on environmental responsibility and green energy, a topic that I – admittedly – knew much too little about. Fortunately, Barzun was able to offer a crash-course on the subject.

But then disaster struck. Without warning, a tall man with an earpiece walked in, apologizing for having to whisk the Ambassador away for his next engagement, a question-and-answer session at the local university. Barzun bade us farewell, and with that any hopes I had of getting more of a story disintegrated instantly. Or so I thought.

I was left with Public Affairs Officer Christopher Dunnett, an equally bearish man who – I soon found out – was more than capable of answering any and all questions.

“Stereotypes are dangerous and destructive powers,” Dunnett explained, elaborating on Barzun’s emphasis on the need for increased Swedish-American cooperation.  “We need to have a more balanced economic system – namely less trade barriers – which has been a focus of President Obama and Secretary [of State Hillary] Clinton.”

Dunnett emphasized the Swedish-American Green Alliance (SAGA) – a “sustainability exchange” for Swedish and American researchers, entrepreneurs, policy makers, journalists, activists, academics, and NGOs – as evidence of increased cooperation. To date, SAGA has resulted in millions of dollars in investment in both the American and Swedish economies.

That was O.K., but I still wasn’t entirely impressed. I had to test the guy, see if he could think creatively. They wanted me to think outside the box? I was going to think outside the box.

 I asked the hardest – and possibly most loaded – question I could think of:

ME: Could you comment on the differences between the American and Swedish political systems? What are some particular challenges you face as an embassy here in Sweden?

He answered almost instantly.

DUNNETT: Americans and Swedes have a fundamentally different view of the role of government. The question we have to ask is, “what’s the proper relationship between government and the citizens?” 

To say I was impressed was an understatement. In that moment, I realized this guy was both smarter and cooler than I probably ever would be, even if I had paid attention in civics.

So what, dear reader, is the point of this story? Am I going somewhere with this, or have I – once again – had one too many Irish coffees?

The lesson here is that things are not always what they seem. In the span of less than 90 minutes, I met the most important government official I’d ever met in my life, saw my plans for an awesome story completely fall apart, asked questions with no real reason why, “discovered” an entirely  new story, and realized that guys in suits can actually be cool. Oh, and PM & Vänner makes a pretty mean reindeer wrap.

Even when it comes in a box.

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Breaking down Benjamin

Monday, February 7th, 2011

PHOTO COURTESY HANS JOHANSSON - Writer's block can afflict anyone. No one knows for sure how to beat it, but ice skating sometimes helps.

I decided to give up my freedom two weeks ago, letting a friend move into my student flat here in Växjö. We spent much of the day moving all three pieces of furniture he owned. Hey, sometimes a guy needs to take his time with things. What’s the harm of missing a lecture or two? By noon both of us already had second thoughts.

Maybe Abbey thought that living with an American would mean we’d be shooting Nerf hoops before throwing a massive toga party, watching football every night, spending most of our money on nachos and popcorn, and debating the finer points of hip hop history.

Uh, nope.

So far, it’s been a lot of conversations like this:

HIM: Ben, what are you doing now?

ME: Planning my next column.

HIM: With your eyes closed?

ME: Yes.

HIM: Lying on your bed?

ME: Yes.

HIM: How long does it take to write a column?

ME: About two hours.

HIM: And you only do one a week?

ME: Yes.

HIM: What do you do with the rest of your time?

ME: Worry about those two hours.

HIM: Do you get paid?

ME: I wish.

After about an hour of that, he was going out of his mind, so I told him he could wade through my unopened emails.

HIM: Why do some of these people say they think you’re wrong?

ME: I guess they’re teaching computer skills nowadays at the mental health center.

HIM: What does this mean, “If I ever see you, run?”

ME: Uh, that’s from my jogging partner.

After a while, he called all his friends, emailed all his friends, and text-messaged all his friends – all in a language I didn’t understand a word of. It definitely wasn’t Swedish.

HIM: What are you doing now?

ME: Planning my next column.

HIM: Is it going to be about coffee?

ME: No.

HIM: Then why are you drinking?

ME: It helps me think.

HIM: Has it helped so far?

ME: No.

Nothing was coming to me, so I went for a run around the lake. I asked him to answer my phone while I was gone. When I came back, he was beaming.

HIM: Hey, a girl called.

ME: Really?!

HIM: Yeah, she said she’s busy tonight but still thinks you’re a good friend.

ME: $&@#! I mean, O.K.

He’s a lot better at math than me, so I asked if he’d like a crack at balancing my checkbook.

HIM: “Taxi to church, 150 SEK.” But you said it would take an army to drag you to church.

ME: O.K., it was the pool hall. But people were praying.

After alphabetizing my books, rearranging my refrigerated ketchup packets and trying on all my hats, he sighed and said, “What are you doing tonight?”

ME: Well, Leonardo DiCaprio is probably going to be doing the same thing I am, lying around and maybe deciding to pee sometime. And Tiger Woods will turn to his friends and say, “O.K., you stay in the parking lot, and I’ll meet you in a few hours.” And whatever Lindsay Lohan is doing, it probably involves cocaine and/or martinis.

Finally, my friend Martin came by and asked how everything was going. We both groaned.

ABBEY: I don’t think Ben is having a very good time.

MARTIN: Why?

ABBEY: He said he has something called writer’s block.

I leaped up and started typing furiously.

ABBEY: Did you get an idea?

ME: No, but I’m writing anyway.

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Amazed and confused

Tuesday, February 1st, 2011

PUBLIC DOMAIN - Despite the stereotype, Swedish women are typically not attracted to pale, skinny American guys with about as much fashion sense as a Yellow-Billed Cardinal, though Greta Garbo (left) might disagree.

 

Ask any expatriate, exchange student, fellow traveler, or even the guy selling newspapers in front of Wal-Mart, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: Swedish women are confusing, even more so than Chad Ochocinco’s decision to change his name to, well, Ochocinco.

And you know what? I agree. I’ve gone on a few dates here in Sweden, and every time found myself more and more perplexed. Christ, even O.J. Simpson’s police chase makes more sense.

Let’s save ourselves a lot of time here and just come out and say Swedish women are incredibly attractive. They have terrific personalities, million-dollar smiles, and are more in shape than Jon Stewart is self-indulgent. They’re well-educated, know exactly what they want in life, and usually speak with an accent that makes most men melt every time we hear it. Oh, and did I mention almost all of them look like they should be modeling somewhere? Seriously, Tyra Banks has nothing on them.

But damn, they are enigmatic. Allow me to illustrate by sharing my personal experiences.

I’ll admit I’ve always been a little nervous courting the opposite sex, probably due to watching – as God is my witness – more romantic comedies than quite possibly any other heterosexual male on earth. But I held firmly to the stereotype that Swedish women are crazy for American guys, and let my friends do the rest to inflate my ego to levels perhaps only rivaled by Muhammad Ali. I was young, I was in good shape, and I was American: when I arrived in Sweden, the ladies wouldn’t stand a chance.

But as the weeks went by, I gaped in paralyzed horror as my self-esteem was quickly ground into a semi-liquid goo. Not only did all my previously held notions turn out to be totally wrong, but it seemed the opposite was true; compared to the endless number of good-looking, well-muscled, and much better dressed Swedish guys, it seemed no woman was interested in a pale, skinny American with about as much fashion sense as a Canadian goose.

Eventually, however, I drummed up enough courage to ask a girl from one of my classes for a fika in Teleborgs Slott. We talked, laughed, and I somehow managed to pay for her – something many Swedish women, I knew, were not used to. We hung out a few more times and, in my mind, there was no way I could fail.

But then disaster struck. I asked her to dinner, assuming the answer would be an automatic “yes.” Instead, I received a text message explaining that dinner would feel “too much like a date.”

I was more confused than when I heard LeBron James was taking his talents to South Beach. Would feel too much like a date? Really? I mean, c’mon, we had coffee at a freaking castle! Apparently, I still had a lot to learn.

In one swift blow, my self-esteem returned to its liquidous state. A few weeks later, it evaporated entirely when, after getting the phone number of a girl I had warmed up to, she rejected me by flat-out saying I wasn’t her “type.” Looking back on it, I probably asked her out for the wrong reasons anyway, but if I had known what I know now I could’ve gotten a lot more sleep.

And now there’s another girl. Unlike the others, she’s the one who took the initiative of “first contact.” A hopeful sign? Perhaps. But then again, I’m pretty sure I’m not psychic.

I think she likes me, and of course I’m crazy about her. But if I’ve learned one thing from my time in Sweden so far, it’s that I don’t know anything.

So expatriates, exchange students, and tourists everywhere, I’m with you: I’m just as clueless as you are. If there’s a Confused Guys Anonymous meeting coming up soon, stop by and let me know. My flat is located right at the intersection of Main and Absurdity.

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An open letter to ferrets everywhere

Saturday, January 22nd, 2011

Before I go any further, let me say this: I’ve never issued a public apology before, so please bear with me. That being said, I would like to apologize to all ferrets everywhere.

I believe this apology requires some explanation. Back in October, I was first assaulted on campus at Linnaeus University by what I assumed to be a ferret; it looked like a ferret, walked like a ferret, and certainly smelled like one. And when I was attacked again a few weeks later, I realized that the devil had taken the form of a ferret.

But over Christmas break, I had an epiphany. It was one of my last days back in the US, and as usual my best friend and I were perusing the innumerable bookstores of Portland, Ore. with more enthusiasm than Brazilian soccer fans. I came across a book called “Animals of the Arctic,” and soon made a discovery more shocking than when I found out the Jerry Springer Show wasn’t real.

My nemesis is not a ferret. It is, in fact, an ermine, a creature indigenous to Sweden described as having “the appearance of a weasel but the temperament of a wolverine.”

Damn. I haven’t been so wrong about something since I thought Swedish Fish were actually from, well, Sweden.

So I hereby issue an apology. It’s never a good thing to make accusations without having all of the information. Calling this creature a ferret was wrong.

I’m sure I’ll probably take some flak for this, but hey, sometimes you just have to eat crow. I know if I were part of a group that had been wrongly pigeonholed publicly, I’d want the person responsible to apologize.

So ferrets worldwide, I’m sorry. Hopefully, we can learn from this incident, and usher in a new era of peaceful relations between our two species. It is my wish that we learn to trust and respect one another, and I hope that is your goal also.

As for you, ermine, I’ll say this: I know a great therapist who could help you out.

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Hide the herring

Thursday, January 13th, 2011

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Teleborgs Slott, the castle located on Linnaeus University's campus, glistens in the December snow.

 

Studded with gently sloping hills and blanketed by lush forests, Oregon is relatively fertile in comparison to the rest of the Western United States. Between the Cascade Mountains, the Pacific Ocean and countless other natural wonders, I can safely say that people from this state –“Oregonians” for the uninformed – are spoiled. There’s a city (Portland) that’s roughly the size of Gothenburg (and almost as trendy), and California is just a few hours’ drive South. Oh, and did I mention that the average winter temperature is around seven degrees Celsius? That may not sound like much, but compared to Sweden it’s downright tropical.

But my home state has problems, too. For one, despite a population of about 3.5 million, there are quite possibly more cows than people. Second, it rains so much that I’m surprised that, after 152 years of statehood, building an ark isn’t mandatory (seriously, rainfall averages more than 100 centimeters a year). And then there’s the never-ending odyssey that is my life.

Yes, I know I oftentimes have an overly dry sense of humor, as several readers have remarked in the past.  And yes, I do sometimes have a tendency to exaggerate things in the same way that Rosanne Barr indulges in cake and ice cream. But when I say that I’ll be in pure, total (albeit frozen) bliss by this time next week, I mean it.

Sure, Sweden may seem to be a strange, oftentimes confusing place with a national cuisine that would make all but the least health-conscious cringe. About five months ago, I came to Växjö a lost, confused, seriously jet-lagged, and scared foreigner. I could barely speak a word of the language, and was anything but functional. The monsoon-like conditions on the first day I arrived, coupled with the overwhelming amount of information and the fact that it was my first time outside the United States, left me with quite a case of culture shock.

But as time went on, I became used to the culture and made new friends that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, helped me survive the semester. Along the way, I found myself lost in the woods, accosted by soccer hooligans, so cold it hurt to move, seriously underdressed on several occasions, stuck in an airport overnight, and assaulted by a ferret (twice).

But I’m coming back for more. Like a stubborn mule – or Brett Favre – I sometimes just don’t know when to quit.

Back in the early 20th century, the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca wrote the following:

Black pony, large moon,

and olives in my saddlebag.

Although I know the roads,

I will never reach Córdoba.

Granted, Lorca was talking about the famed Spanish city, but really, I think it sucks to be the narrator of that poem. Why? Because I have reached Córdoba. Well, my Córdoba anyway. It’s called Växjö, and if it doesn’t mean “Heaven,” then I’m calling the dictionary people.

When you’re in love with something, you go back to it; you stay committed (as long as you don’t live in Hollywood).

So as I say goodbye to my family and friends (again), say farewell to the cats, and leave my family’s horses behind (yes, my parents live on horse property; no they do not own a John Deere tractor), I can smile and say “hello, beautiful.”

Because Växjö, I’m coming back.

Hide the herring.

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Wanted: workable wisdom

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Located about an hour from Portland, Oceanside, Ore. is a popular destination for tourists, known for its large sandy beaches and moderate temperatures.

 

I know a lot of you may already have reached this conclusion, so I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’m not exactly the smartest person to have ever lived. Rather, far from it – the fact that I barely survived pre-calculus notwithstanding.

I have made a few smart choices in my life (staying in school, keeping away from drugs, betting on Zlatan Ibrahimovic to avoid clarity in interviews like Perez Hilton does diet and exercise), which I suppose have helped me to survive up to this point. But right now I’m facing a dilemma.

I love Sweden. Too much. In fact, though I’m back on my parents’ farm until Jan. 14 – a place that technically I should call “home” – I don’t feel like I’m home. I know it’s only a little more than a week until I return to Växjö, but the wait is becoming excruciatingly painful, even more so than having my wisdom teeth removed two years ago.

Dear science: please invent a time machine. Because I want to go a few days into the future, where I’ll find myself braving minus 20-degree weather, becoming confounded by a language I have only a basic understanding of, and eating a bizarre prokaryote called “herring” regularly.

I need to cope, to find a way to pass the time until I go back, but right now that seems harder than riding a unicycle blindfolded. Even Frodo Baggins had an easier time.

Sure, my family and best friend may be here, but this whole exercise feels way too much like a vacation. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but I guess something about the land of ABBA, meatballs and blondes has penetrated my soul.

It’s said that “home is where your heart is.” And right now, my heart is in Sweden.

That being said, I think a trip to the beach is in order: when the Pacific Ocean is only an hour away, you tend to take advantage of it – if only to emphasize the vacation aspect of your current state of being.

Besides, the water in Sweden tends to be a little chilly this time of year.

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Survivor: international airport edition

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

Adversity. The unknown. You know, that feeling you get every time Beck releases yet another “best of” compilation.

It can be frustrating. It can be terrifying. But when you’re studying abroad, it is inevitable.

For months, my parents had been planning on me returning for the holidays, spending my 22nd Christmas in a row with them. Flying to Portland, Ore. from Copenhagen, I was bent on spending Christmas Eve in a semi-conscious coma, sleeping off the jet lag resulting from a nine-hour time difference and more than 10,000 kilometers (6,000 miles) of flying.

Instead, I spent my Christmas Eve at the Toronto-Pearson International Airport Holiday Inn.

I had a feeling, while watching the Swedish countryside go by on a 6 a.m. train from Växjö, that the heavy snowfall might cause some delays in Copenhagen, as it had in paralyzing pretty much the rest of Western Europe (a breakdown only equaled by a certain unpronounceable Icelandic volcano this past summer) . But, I clung to the hope that the Danes, like Swedes, were used to large amounts of frozen precipitation, and that everything would work out. Boy, was I wrong.

How I managed to keep my cool –after sitting on the tarmac for three hours – is beyond me, as was refraining from launching the airline representative into the stratosphere upon learning I would miss my connecting flight from Toronto. But at least some good came of the situation.

Not only was I given a free hotel room (which actually wasn’t too shabby as far as hotel rooms go, considering there was a sauna), but I received three free meals which – with no price limit – allowed me to splurge: I ate crab cakes for dinner, indulged in a smorgasbord for breakfast, and feasted on a roast turkey and brie baguette with green salad for lunch. Good thing there’s a black hole where my stomach should be.

Eventually, I did make it home in time for Christmas, but the lesson had been learned: adversity happens. Really, the whole episode was eerily symbolic of my entire first semester in Växjö.

Dealing with adversity is perhaps one of the most important things about studying abroad. Things are ever-changing, fluidic, and never, ever go exactly according to plan. You have to learn to deal with this, adapt, “go with the flow.”

There’s a reason studying abroad looks great on any resume: employers love to see it, as it shows you’ve dealt with, and overcome, more adverse situations than Derek Jeter has pitchers. In other words, you can adapt to almost anything.

Otherwise, I suggest buying a pet rock. Not a lot of adversity to deal with there.

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Collapsing in on myself

Tuesday, December 21st, 2010

Something is dying inside me.

No, I’m not trying to sound like some overly angst-ridden emo band featuring five guys that haven’t showered in three weeks. And no, I’m not experiencing a crisis relating to the retirement of Larry King or the breakup of The Ark.

The “old me” is dying, collapsing in on itself, being replaced by newfound beliefs that have been molded by my time in Sweden.

In the past four months, I’ve changed in ways I could never have possibly imagined, and experienced things beyond my wildest dreams. I have seen the very best in humanity (strangers giving me a ride back to my dorm when I was lost) and the very worst (terrorist attacks in Stockholm). There have been times, admittedly, when I wished I had never come to Sweden at all, where all I really wanted was to be back home in the familiarity of the American Northwest.

But like a girl you end up spending a prolonged period of time with, I’ve fallen in love with Sweden. The people, the lifestyle and, yes, even the climate. And like a girl, the more time I’ve spent here, the more comfortable I’ve become with the culture and language; I’ve even come to prefer some Swedish cultural aspects more than American ones (like forming queues in banks and other public places, or bagging your own groceries).

Talking to friends and family who’ve been to a country you will be studying in may be useful, but you can never be totally prepared for what will happen. You have to simply take the plunge, as pretty much every resort on the planet proclaims in advertisements. And so far, I haven’t drowned.

Swedish professor Jonas Stier states that studying abroad is “not merely a physical journey – but also an academic, cultural, intellectual and emotional journey.”  Now that I’ve been abroad, I agree. This journey – the first time I have ever even been outside the United States – has altered literally every fiber of my existence, changing not only how I perceive the world but how I perceive myself . In other words, it has been intensely personal.

My journey is halfway through. One semester down, one to go. I’ve made new friends, tried new things, and read probably every book ever written about Pippi Longstocking. And I still haven’t frozen to death.

Thank God for coffee…

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Want to spread Christmas cheer? Burn a goat

Wednesday, December 15th, 2010

 

If you could only know one thing about Sweden, know this: Christmas is a big deal. A really big deal. Bigger than the Red Sox winning the World Series, or even the wedding of a certain Crown Princess this past summer.

To the casual observer, the Swedish concept of Christmas seems pretty similar to the American one: religiously, it’s still about the birth of Jesus, but mercifully absent of any little drummer boys. Radio stations play the same five songs for more than a month, and practically every grocery store has a Christmas tree lot in front of it. On Christmas Eve, stockings are often hung by the chimney with care, and Santa Claus is always making a list and checking it twice. Even Rudolph is a beloved icon.

But not everywhere in Sweden is ”Jul” so standardized. North of Stockholm, people in Gävle prefer to celebrate by burning a giant straw goat every year.

Technically, the incineration of the four-legged farm animal is illegal, but residents of the city of 70,000 usually take matters into their own hands. In 2009, the 43-foot-high goat was set aflame early in the morning before fire crews could respond.

This is nothing new in Gävle. The goat, a giant version of the traditional Jul Goat, has burned 24 times since it was first erected in 1966.

Back then, Gävle advertising consultant Stig Gavlén came up with the idea of putting a giant straw goat in the city’s Slottstorget (Castle Square). The three-ton goat, designed by Gavlén’s brother Jesper (who was also the city’s fire chief), was erected on Dec. 1. But by New Year’s Eve it was set ablaze by an unknown individual.

Since then, the goat has survived the holiday season only 10 times. In addition to its nearly annual flameout, the goat also has been smashed to pieces, run over by a car, and tossed into a river.

City officials have tried to discourage vandalism of the goat over the years, posting guards and setting up video surveillance, but their efforts frequently have gone for naught. One year, guards on a very cold night thought it might be safe to step into a nearby restaurant to warm up for a bit. They were barely inside the front door when the goat was in flames.

Sometimes, the goat doesn’t survive anywhere close to Christmas. In 1970, it was lit only six hours after it was set up. And in 1979, it burned to the ground before it was even finished.

Rather than bored teenagers, a decidedly bizarre cast of characters has written itself into the lore of what is undoubtedly one of the world’s largest effigies. In 2005, two men dressed as Santa Claus and the Gingerbread Man were responsible for the goat’s destruction. In 2001, it was a tourist from Cleveland, one of the few culprits who has ever actually been apprehended. He spent 18 days in jail.

Today, the goat’s fame has gone worldwide. Since 1988, English bookies – in yet another example of how the English seem to bet on everything –  have taken wagers on how long the goat will last. And, people can witness the goat’s likely demise through the goat’s official blog.

“Terrible night!” the goat wrote last year after burning to the ground. “Slept so well under my beautiful snow blanket, when it suddenly became awfully hot. It was fire!”

And I thought my family tradition of eating lasagna on Christmas Eve was strange.

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In Oslo, an ultramodern makeover

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - The Oslo Opera House is a 1,100-room complex built at the head of the Oslofjord. Opened in 2008, construction cost an estimated 4.4 billion Norwegian Kroner (approx. $880 million).

“You know, there is more construction here than anywhere in all of Scandinavia,” said Tore Valkeapää, the old Sami shopkeeper running a store out of a massive tent in the middle of central Oslo’s bustling waterfront district.

I smiled approvingly. Somehow, the elderly man’s words seemed right. Everywhere I turned in this ultra-modern city, construction cranes rose like monuments in the soft November sky. Oil revenue is fast turning Norway’s once-quaint capital into the Dubai of Northern Europe, and the evidence is everywhere.

To the casual visitor, the most obvious example of Oslo’s modern resurgence is the Oslo Opera House, a 1,100-room complex built at the head of the Oslofjord, one of the largest of Norway’s famed fjords. Opened in April 2008, it was constructed at a cost of 4.4 billion Norwegian Kroner (approximately $880 million), and is the largest cultural building built in the country since the Nidarosdomen was completed around 1300.

“It’s definitely attracts a lot of visitors,” said Valkeapää, whose store sits less than 300 meters away. He’s not kidding: in its first year alone, more than 1.3 million people passed through the Opera’s doors, with many more simply taking photos outside of its low sloping roof, which literally rises out of the ice-cold water. The expressionist-style building has also received considerable international attention from the architectural community, winning both the World Architecture Award in October 2008 and the 2009 Mies van der Rohe Award, the European Union prize for contemporary architecture.

Indeed, the “Tiger City” seems to have adopted a new slogan: bigger, taller, glitzier. Out with the old, in with the new. Already a “young” city by European standards, Oslo has been turning back the clock even more. No better confirmation exists than the under-construction Edvard Munch museum, dubbed “Lambda” by architect Juan Herreros. When completed in 2013, the 14-story museum will replace the current space dedicated to the world-renowned Norwegian painter, which itself first opened in 1963. With promises of sustainable construction and visitor-friendly design, the project has generated virtually no controversy among locals.

I was surprised, to be sure, of just how modern Oslo is becoming. I had decided to spend a day in the city with a couple of friends of mine, and our expectations were decidedly mediocre. Others I’d talked to had described the city as little more than a retail-oriented port with a reputation for being one of the most expensive cities in the world (indeed, it holds the top stop according to The Economist’s 2010 rankings), or worse, a drab capital lost among tourists to the more popular and slightly less expensive Kristiansand and Bergen.

To be sure, when we first entered the Oslo metropolitan area in the early morning via bus, there wasn’t much to see: Asker looked like a typical bedroom community, and Drammen was a riverside industrial burg. But when we finally reached Oslo, I was awed by a spectacle of high-rise glam and construction that for a moment convinced me that I was looking at a much larger northern city like Berlin or Moscow.

The first thing we did was take a walk. Even at this early hour, the streets were crowded with business people on their way to work and chipper travelers conversing in half a dozen languages. Everything was clean, bright and functional.

There were little white candles flickering everywhere – even in the cozy cafe where we lingered over a lavish breakfast smorgasbord. According to our preferences, we fortified ourselves with hard-boiled eggs and shrimp salad, with mackerel in tomato sauce and muesli. We refilled our plates and sipped our tea and coffee, reluctant to go out into the winter cold. Candles in silver-stemmed goblets and smoked glass boxes burned on every table, like a promise to hold onto the light right through the frosty autumn morning and the rest of the day.

While my companions endeavored to visit the cultural sites of Oslo, from the National Gallery that houses such Munch masterpieces as “The Scream” (recently put back on display after being stolen in 2004) to the Stortinget (the seat of the Norwegian parliament) and the Royal Palace, I was determined to discover just exactly what Oslonians thought of the immense changes taking place in their city.

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Wood and marble meld seamlessly together in the main lobby of the Oslo Opera House. Since opening, it has become a symbol of Oslo's renaissance.

“It’s hard to imagine, but when I first opened [my store] there were only a couple of T-bane (subway) stops,” said Per Hermansson, owner of Shadowland Records. “Now they’re everywhere.”

Hermansson has lived in Oslo since emigrating from Sweden in 1992. He opened Shadowland Records in 1998, specializing in gothic and electronic music. Located on Storgata, one of Oslo’s busiest shopping streets, the store is in an easy-to-miss alley next to a shopping mall. I came upon it by chance, having become lost after grabbing a bite to eat at a 1950s-themed American deli, and knew instantly that I’d found something unique: stores devoted to this type of music – a genre with admittedly few fans – are rare, and usually only found exclusively in much larger cities like New York or London. Its mere existence was a sign of Oslo’s evolution.

“It’s the oil,” Hermansson told me. “Everything goes back to oil.” Hermansson first came to work in the lucrative oil fields of Arctic Norway, and decided to settle in the country for good.

Largely unaffected by the worldwide economic recession, Norway has been banking on energy for decades. First, it was timber. Later, hydropower. Now it’s oil.

In August, Norway’s daily oil production was more than 2.3 million barrels per day, placing it ninth worldwide, just behind Iraq and above other oil-rich nations such as Nigeria and Venezuela. Most of it comes from offshore wells in the North Sea, where there are an estimated 6.7 billion barrels in reserves.

In 2007, the state-controlled Norwegian energy companies Statoil and Norsk Hydro merged to form Statoil ASA, which today is the largest offshore oil and gas company in the world. With operations in 21 countries, it is ranked by Fortune as the 36th-largest company on earth, and the biggest in Scandinavia. Employing more than 29,000 people, the Stavanger-based company pours more than $3.5 billion into the Norwegian economic machine every year.

Hermansson decided to leave the oil fields because he wasn’t completely happy. “I’d seen a couple of accidents, and didn’t want to spend the rest of my life on a rig,” he said. “I just wanted to make some money and start my business.”

The first few years were difficult for Hermansson and Shadowland. With rent along Storgata being among the highest in the Nordic countries, business simply wasn’t brisk enough in the small, low-ceilinged store. But around 2004, things began to change.

“More and more people started coming in,” Hermansson told me. “It was strange, because most stores of this kind were closing [due to online downloading instead]. But they kept coming in somehow. I was able to start putting on shows [by bringing bands to local clubs] and last year was one of my best years ever [for business].”

According to Hermansson, there are only a few dozen record stores worldwide that he knows of that sell gothic music, and his is the only one in Scandinavia. Shadowland’s growth, he believes, is directly related to Oslo’s emergence as a destination for cultural digestion, including exposure to various subcultures.

“When I first came here, there really wasn’t a subcultural element to Oslo,” explained Hermansson, his Swedish accent virtually indiscernible from lifelong residents. “As the city has grown, the scene here has grown as well. Now we’re one of the biggest in Europe.”

Turid Melhus, 24, has lived in Oslo her entire life. “There’s definitely been a lot of change here,” she said, her English easier to understand than almost any New Yorker.

Melhus is a bartender at 34 SkyBar, a posh bar located on the 34th floor of the Radisson Blu Plaza Hotel. At 117 meters, the building is the tallest in Norway, and the third-tallest in Scandinavia. Inside, its sleek, futuristic design is a microcosm of Oslo’s aspirations.

“When I was a little girl, there were very high taxes,” Melhus told me as I sipped an Irish coffee over the glass-topped bar. The crowd, mostly middle-aged foreigners, was elegantly subdued, the legato crooning of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” wafting over glass tables and plush red chairs. “But the taxes helped pay for many things that have been built here, and now business is taking over and paying for it,” Melhus added. “None of this existed when I was young. It almost seems like it sprouted overnight.”

To the uninformed, it may seem that way indeed. As night descended on the city, the temperature outside was beginning to dip. Little snowflakes fluttered by the floor-to-ceiling windows like flecks of dust that had been disturbed, and suddenly I realized the symbolism of the moment.

“There may be a furious storm outside,” Melhus told me as I nursed my coffee, “but when you come here you know you are in heaven.”

I smiled. So that’s what Oslo aspires to be: heaven. With the annual Nobel Peace Prize Award Ceremony taking place Dec. 10, and the FIS Nordic World Ski Championships taking place in 2011 (an event which has unsurprisingly sparked a construction boom of its own), the world may begin to see the results of the makeover.

“The changes have been unbelievable,” Melhus said. “In another 20 years, I probably won’t recognize the way it is now.”

If Oslo’s transformation continues at its current pace, she may be right.

BENJAMIN MACK/THE LOCAL - Tourists and locals alike mingle on Storgata, one of the busiest shopping streets in Oslo. Largely unaffected by the worldwide economic recession, the Norwegian capital is ranked by The Economist as the most expensive city in the world.

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