A Very Short Story About Norway

This is a very short story about my first time in Norway, because, well, the trip itself was just as short.

I mean technically, the drive was long — ten hours on the road, woof! — but all told, we were in Norway for three hours.

All to rescue a dog and a Frenchman.

(this is not the van in question; this was the rescue mission van)

Basically, last year my best friend purchased a used van and converted it into a beauty of a camping machine — you know, one of those worthy of all the #vanlife hashtags.

The grand plan was to take it for spin on an extensive summer road trip: her boyfriend would drive it from their home in Gothenburg all the way up to the Lofoten Islands in Norway, camp out for a week or so with her dog, after which point we would join them via an overnight train from Sweden.

Well, the van had other ideas and decided not make it to the Lofoten Islands.

In fact, when it broke down, it had barely made it past Oslo.

I’ll skip the details, as it’s not my Swedish-Norwegian-Franco-American nightmare to tell (most of which was dull and bureaucratic anyway) — but after two days of little progress and increasingly frustrated parties all around, I got roped into the situation with a lunchtime text: “Pack an overnight bag. We’re driving to Norway in an hour.”

My best friend, taking matters into her own hands like a boss, decided to rent a van from the Circle K across the street (those Swedish convenience stores really do do it all) and off we went to save her beloveds.

Five hours — and one incredibly scenic drive — later, we found the biff & the dog in a town called Hamar, about 80 miles (a roughly two-hour drive) north of Oslo. A quiet little place, and quite relaxing in the summertime, when the sun dominates the skies for most of your waking hours.

We stretched our legs and made the most of said sunlight by picking up some craft beer and fashioning a picnic of the remaining perishables (recovered from the broken-down van) on the shores of Mjøsa, Norway’s largest lake. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.

In the end we didn’t even stay the night, turning right on our heels and driving all the way back to Gothenburg instead (the rescuees were craving their own beds, understandably). But not before the Frenchman walked us to these centuries-old cathedral ruins encased in a very modernly-styled, IM Pei-esque glass pyramid; a discovery made in his ample free time spent wandering around Hamar. So the whole excursion wasn’t entirely without its touristy, mildly educational moments.

Of all the ways I could have been introduced to Norway, a spontaneous recon mission and 10 hours in a van was certainly not high on the list of imagined possibilities.

But reflecting in the weeks following this trip, it reminded me of the little gifts this nomadic lifestyle affords, of which I will never not be appreciative: the ability to start a cross-country road trip at the drop of a hat; spending hours in a van with my best friend, just her and me and the open road; casual picnics in a heretofore-unknown-to-me town in a new country, watching kids cannonball into a lake as the sun drips and blazes ever so slowly across the horizon.

Made for a hell of a better memory than taking the train.