Tag Archives: gardermoen

Going home – 1st September 2014 (Day 5/5)

It’s that time again. The last few grinding hours before I finally go home. The time when I drink as much beer as I can pour down my neck in order to stave off the sense of impending doom, and the guttural rejection of going back to the UK.

Monday morning, and the weather was bright and sunny. The skies were clear and blue, the air was crisp and cold, but the sun reached through it to lay a warm and gentle hand on my upturned face and closed eyelids.

Enough of the poetry, it was time to clear up the shit-tip of a hotel room. I threw out the leftover Krispbreads, 4 day old un-refridgerated spreadable cheese, blended chicken & mayonnaise filling, and a ridiculous number of coffee cups. Honestly, sometimes I look at the detritus from my existence and wonder how I am still alive.

Checking out of the hotel was not what could be described as a complex process; drop the key card in a glass jar and fuck off. Winner. I like it when things are that simple.

When I had jumped off of the flybussen on the way in to Oslo, I had quite accidentally gotten off at the closest stop to my hotel, so despite my ticket being from the actual bussterminalen (a stop further along the line) I thought I would take a chance and try getting on the bus at the same place I got off; Prof. Aschehougs plass. It was a short, bright and lovely walk from the hotel down to the bus stop, and my timing was impeccable – the bus pulled up just as I was crossing the road.

The driver looked at the ticket and waved me on board without question. I settled myself in, and as soon as I stopped moving or having something to think about, the crushing reality of going home set in. I spent the 40 minute journey to Gardermoen airport sighing wistfully, doing mental comparisons between what I could see outside the window and what I knew I was going home to.

Incidentally, have I shown you the front of my new notepad yet? I don’t think I have…

I love this.

I love this.

Security was just as fast and straightforward as it was through Gatwick… if a little bit uncomfortable. There was a guy in a wheelchair directly in front of me, and the staff were being helpful and friendly as his friend/carer was helping to prepare him to go through scanning. Where it got awkward as an observer was when they started detaching false limbs…

On the way through the airport, I had noticed some of the staff zipping past on scooters with what looked like big baskets on the front. I was thoroughly impressed, since I cannot imagine anyone in the UK getting that past a Health & Safety assessment.

I headed straight for the bar once I had established where my gate was; going home always requires at least one pint before I get on the plane.

What more could a girl want?

What more could a girl want?

It’s always interesting to do beer price comparisons, and on this occasion I paid 104NOK for 60cl, which calculates back to approximately £9.48 a pint. By no means the most expensive beer I have bought in Scandinavia, but neither was it the nicest. Also, it speaks volumes that I no longer wince when I work out the prices…

I’d like to take a moment, brothers and sisters, to talk to you about Wifi. Norwegian airlines have free wifi on their planes (or at least some of them), the flybussen has free wifi, as does Gardermoen airport. It pleases me to see how much better they understand the important things here.

Essentially, yes.

Essentially, this.

It was just before 11am and I had settled myself in for a round of people watching, and thinking about how the rest of the day was going to pan out. I was fairly confident that I was going to drink enough beer to keep me content, while enjoying the process of getting from one country to another…

However, after I landed back in Gatwick, I needed to take a 2 hour train back to Bedford, followed by a 1 hour bus journey back to Northampton. Factoring in time standing around waiting for public transport, I expected to arrive back in the town centre around 6pm. I strongly suspected that once I got there, I would be so demoralised that I would end out going to the pub for a few before being able to consider heading home.

Thinking about it, my one complaint about traveling to Norway is that no carrier flies from Luton Airport anymore. Luton Airport is a couple of junctions down the M1 motorway, and takes roughly 40 minutes from my front door to drive. The first time I travelled på Norge in 2009, Ryanair operated a flight from Luton to Oslo Torp [‘Oslo Torp’, also known as ‘Not Really Oslo At All’] but these days the options are pretty much limited to one of the three main London airports.

The net result of that is either 1) a dismally long, circuitous trip there and back on public transport, 2) asking someone else to take 3-4 hours out of their day to drop me off and then the same again to pick me up, or 3) driving directly and paying extra to park at the airport. I am sure there must be an easier or quicker way, but I am yet to find it.

The time came to get on the plane and it was somewhat chaotic to say the least. It was packed full of people with lots of luggage, lots of children, and absolutely zero fucks to give. I did make an observation which I may pass on to the airline; people might have a greater sense of urgency if the cabin crew changed “Could we please ask customers, once they have found their seats, to please stand out of the aisle in order to allow other passengers to pass” to “Sit. The Fuck. DOWN.”

It always strikes me that the people on planes headed to the UK are more obnoxious, less interested in co-operating  with the staff, and much much louder. I am assuming that’s because the percentage of British people is higher, and they are probably just as pleased as I am about going home.

20140901_143705

The only way to travel

The flight landed in Gatwick without incident, and I scuttled through the terminal and down to the train platforms as quickly as I could. I managed to get there just before the next train out to Bedford, and by 3pm I was heading home. The view out of my window was precisely as inviting as I had been expecting it to be.

...England's green and pleasant land...

England’s green and pleasant land.

The award for my favourite passenger of the trip so far goes to the incredibly well-spoken but utterly fraught woman in her mid-40’s, who was despairingly trying to negotiate better behaviour from her disdainful 9 year old daughter, whom she insisted on referring to as ‘darling’. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to strangle more, but in the end I decided it was definitely the mother.

Please, dahhhhling…”

20140827_154049

We arrived in Bedford with me successfully avoiding assaulting anyone, almost solely thanks to this Buzzfeed article;

44 Medieval Beasts That Cannot Even Handle It Right Now

The bus was 20 minutes late, but that is nothing to be surprised about. I was grateful that there weren’t many people on it, but I did end out spending the last 10 minutes of the journey on High Alert.

There was an old man in a strange hat who was repeatedly leaning across the aisle to talk to a young girl who was traveling on her own, and had spent most of the trip dozing. Every time he got close to her, she physically shied away from him, and she did not look happy at all. I sat coiled, ready to pounce at the slightest indication he was about to do anything untoward. He ended out getting off the bus a couple of stops before her, and I was able to relax again. He had probably only just been being friendly, and wanting to pass the time chatting with a pretty girl, but I know too much about the dark side of life to not be cautious as a default response.

I ended out getting back to Northampton for 6:30PM, and as expected a wave of dejection washed over me. Pub time, suspend reality for a little while longer. There are two main pubs I choose to spend time in while I am in town, the King Billy and the Racehorse. Since the Billy was closest, I wandered down there.

What’s become apparent over the years is that while the Billy is great if you’re out with people or if there is a band on, it’s a bit of an odd place to be if you’re on your own, and its also bloody uncomfortable – especially if you’ve been traveling all day. I had a pint and decided to head up the Racehorse, where there was a cushioned corner that pretty much has my name nailed above it.

The Racehorse changed ownership a while ago – possibly getting on for a year even – and it is clearly steered by very different hands these days. Most significantly, it doesn’t smell like piss and manky dogs any more, which is a thing to be very pleased about. However, on a slight downside (for me at least) it’s not as alternative as it used to be. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a nice place to go, as long as you are prepared to be hassled by a variety of strange old men. It’s just…different…these days.

As I was sat there, the new flat screen TV was playing some ‘retro’ music channel. It started off as being ironically funny, but got progressively more painful as time passed; Right Said Fred, Charles & Eddie, Boyz II Men, and ending out with Emmylou Harris, Glenn Campbell and Merle Haggard & Willie Nelson. I had no idea what the actual fuck was going on, but no-one else seemed concerned and the chances of anyone changing the channel any time soon were getting more and more remote.

Just when I was starting to think that I was going to have to abandon the Racehorse too, I remembered that I had my tablet with me. Whenever I feel frustrated with life, or angry, or just low, there has always been one thing and one thing alone that will boost me out of a bad place; the Prodigy.

Some people like to feel soothed when they are upset, comforted, reassured, looked after. That doesn’t work for me. I need to feel energised, snarling, primal, battered by obnoxious basslines. The Prodigy have a mystical power over me, and can fix me when nothing else can.

20140901_202604

Happiness.

Leeroy bouncing around the stage like a happy deckchair. Maxim howling, with a kilt and a gauntlet. Keith KILLING IT, wearing what looks like it might have been his Nan’s sofa in a previous life. Liam decked out in Fresian-cow-print trousers doing, well, everything else quite frankly. The tension and irritation of the day just bled out of me – I owe a good deal of my sanity over the last 22 years to this band.

Now that I am home, I have choices to make. While I fill my daily life with things that make me happy, as soon as I consider my existence in a larger context or a longer time period, I am dissatisfied with where I am. Northampton has long since gone past being a place I enjoyed living in; the things that made it good have been eroded away over time. The places I loved simply do not exist anymore. My friendship circle has moved on, grown up, left. Also, I am a different person these days and need different things out of my world. There are other places on the planet that are not only achingly beautiful, but that make me feel an inner peace that I have never experienced anywhere else.

My choices are quite straightforward, and I instinctively know the answer before I have even asked myself the question; do I wait and see how things evolve, because I am safe, and comfortable both physically and financially at the moment…or do I drive as hard as I can towards the thing I actually want, despite the discomforts it may bring?

It’s a no brainer really. I am too old to be doing the things I don’t want to do, and I am also no longer the kind of person who is prepared to just put up with things because that’s easier.

Watch this space, because shit is about to get REAL.

Oslo 28th August 2014 (Day 1/5)

Allow me to paint a picture for you.

It’s 3:37am. It is dark, and it is raining. Not proper rain, of course; just that horrid grey drizzle, the kind that sits innocently in a layer on top of your clothes for ten minutes…before reaching critical mass and soaking in, drenching you more thoroughly than if you had run around in a proper storm. I am stood in the garish purple glow of the lights outside the Premier Inn, Gatwick A23. I am wearing – as usual – camouflage combat shorts and skate trainers, and for the first time since March, I am actually feeling like I may have misjudged my wardrobe.

I was waiting for a taxi, which was getting progressively later. I was due to fly out to Oslo that morning at 5:55am, and while my logical self had looked at the timescales and was doing its best to reassure me that everything was going to be fine, my risk-assessing self was remembering the horrendous queue to get through security on the way to Copenhagen, and the fuck up with the boarding passes on the way to Montpelier. The background whine of anxiousness was getting louder and louder.

After a disproportionately polite telephone call to remind the taxi company that I was waiting, a car arrived and whisked me off to the South terminal. The driver complimented me on travelling light, which instantly soothed my ruffled feathers, since it’s a bit of a point of pride with me; if it doesn’t fit in one rucksack, it’s not going.

I trotted through the terminal to security…where there was one person in front of me. Despite the fact that I forgot to take the liquids out of my backpack (because, you know, I don’t travel enough to remember…) meaning that the security staff had to go through my bag – very nicely, and almost apologetically – I was through in 4 minutes.

So much for worrying about not getting through in time. Fuck you, risk-assessing brain.

I took a slow amble around the departure lounge, and fuck was it hot in there. I’m not sure if they try to deliberately encourage germs to breed or what, but it was quite unpleasant. Most of the shops weren’t open at that stage, but there was a Costa Coffee and there was the bar, with the warm shiny lights and sports news. I decided that I wasn’t going to have a beer, which would have been traditional, and was very pleased with myself. Granted, it was only 4:10am, and that’s probably a little bit early, even for me.

Making Sensible Choices

Making Sensible Choices

I spent the next hour sat with my massive coffee, charging my phone, and quietly judging people. A mid-30’s couple with a pushchair sat down by one of the departure boards. She was very pale and tired looking, with her blond hair pulled back into an “It’s-4am-who-gives-a-fuck” ponytail. She was staring vacantly into the pushchair, looking largely incapable of thought, let alone conversation. He on the other hand looked positively relaxed. He was wearing a neatly pressed pair of bootcut jeans, with pointy slip-on brown shoes, a snappy polo shirt with a pair of wrap-around sunglasses hanging backwards off of his neck, and a hat that he had clearly stolen from the Man from Del Monte. He slid his arse forward as far as he could on the seat, sprawling his legs out far enough to be a trip hazard, casually leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head, taking a nap while his partner sat motionless, staring at the baby.

I bet he’s a prick.

Ooh, on a side note, in the hotel room last night, I had discovered a Gideon’s bible. I didn’t realise they still did that these days, but I casually tossed a challenge out to my friends via the medium of Facebook.

Gauntlet thrown.

Gauntlet thrown.

The response was fairly overwhelming, with some excellent ideas, but in my sleep- and coffee-deprived state, I settled on writing a new Foreword and Disclaimer.

20140827_210822

I feel like I could have done better, but never mind. I will be more prepared next time.

Anyway, departure gate 51 was called and I headed off on a completely uneventful mooch. Flight boarding and takeoff was absolutely by the numbers, with the only unpleasantness being the woman sat on the other side of the aisle. She was really small and quite old, with exceptionally short hair. She looked like a Squirrel Monkey in sandals, and she was cheerfully picking at the skin on her feet throughout the safety demonstration.

Speaking of safety, apparently there are no calm and orderly departures from Norwegian airline planes…

RUN AWAY

RUN AWAY

No fuss, no trauma, no turbulence, no screaming children, and even the old lady stopped picking herself. It was all to the good, because my brain – being its usual assclown self – had woken me up at 0:50am and there was no way I could have coped with any level of stress whatsoever.

Scumbag Brain

Scumbag Brain

We touched down in Oslo Gardermoen in absolutely glorious sunshine. It was warm and bright, with a cool breeze, the sky was a crystal clear azure blue, and the drizzly misery of that morning was rapidly burned away. I bounced through the airport, grinning my tits off… and did in fact laugh loudly as an escalator slowly swept me down past a massive poster which appeared to show a load of statues in a veritable orgy of oral pleasure. I am perfectly prepared to accept that it might just be my mind interpreting it that way, of course.

I had pre-booked tickets for a bus to and from Oslo bus station, and I stood around the place where the timetable had suggested the bus would be going from. There was a large group of staff from one Finnish company all gathered around in the same place, although they weren’t waiting for the same bus I was. After the best part of 20 minutes had passed, risk-assessment brain was clearing its throat and saying “…are you sure you know what you’re doing?”.

Of course, the bus turned up on the dot of when it was due, the ticket I had downloaded onto my phone was absolutely fine, the bus was relatively empty and comfortable, and also had free Wi-Fi.

It was never going to go wrong, idiot.

It was never going to go wrong, idiot.

Fuck you, risk-assessment brain. I really need to learn to trust my own judgement more. Unless I’m very drunk. Then I shouldn’t do that at all.

I was struck by how much the outskirts of Oslo – where there was a load of construction work taking place on what looked like it might be some funky new office complex – looked really like the outskirts of Bergen. There is obviously a very specific style of building that is popular at the moment, all clever and full of shapes.

My ticket was supposed to be to the bussterminalen. I pressed the stop button (which didn’t light up, but I didn’t want to press it again, because I am a fool) and picked up my bag, shuffling to the edge of my seat in anticipation of the bus stopping. Which it didn’t. The bus driver slowed to a crawl, ready to stop, as I was poised to get up. Both the driver and I were waiting for SOMEONE to commit to an action. In any case, he drove straight past, and I ended out getting off at the next stop like that was what I meant all along. As it happened, it was way closer to my hotel, so I am taking that as a Win.

I was staying at the Smarthotel on St Olav’s Gate. I took a walk up to see if there was any chance I could check in early. There wasn’t. I guess I should have paid more attention to the “Want to check-in early?” option when booking…

Anyway, I went off to go and familiarise myself with the local geography. Oslo centre is remarkably easy to navigate, and once you know a few street names, it’s almost impossible to get lost. I sat for a little while in the sunshine by the fountain in Eidsvolls Plass, feeling utterly at peace with the world.

I am given to understand it was still raining at home. BAHAHAHAHAH.

I am given to understand it was still raining at home. BAHAHAHAHAH.

Utterly at peace, but for one statue, which was challenging my British sensibilities to their utter limits. The statue was of a satyr. With his knob out. Not just OUT, but also really happy to see everyone. There were streams and streams of tourists taking photos and posing with it, but I was way too busy politely ignoring it. I have therefore resorting to stealing someone else’s picture.

I… well, ahh… ahem… I still don’t know exactly what I am supposed to think about this. What is the correct response? Am I supposed to be aroused, intimidated, amused, admiring? I am too British to deal with this, damnit.

Something else that really struck me was the sheer volume of people begging for money. There were genuinely loads of them, you couldn’t walk 25m in any direction without seeing someone begging or trying to entertain for cash. They fell into two very distinct groups; 1) guys dressed as clowns and 2) the wives of Papa Lazarou.

Tired to sell me a magazine in the centre of Oslo

Tried to sell me a magazine in the centre of Oslo

The first time a guy walked past me going “Beep beep!” I was delighted. I thought that I had finally found a place were people were free to wander around and be clowns if they wanted. I figured out what was going on as soon as I laughed…and he immediately homed in on me like a magpie after Shiny Things. I gave him a £2 coin. Good luck with that, son.

I wandered through the town and down to the waterfront and the Opera house. You could actually SMELL the sea, and it’s funny how you realise that you missed something like that once you have it again.

The ACTUAL Sea.

The ACTUAL Sea.

Oslo itself reminded me a lot of Copenhagen in terms of the architecture, and little details like the pedestrian crossings, but it was really very different in the atmosphere and the way it felt. Copenhagen gives off the impression that is has been designed, like some kind of model village. Oslo has a much more organic feel to it, like it has grown up around the people and evolved into the space, much more like the slightly cramped and alive feeling you get from London.

Except Olso is clean.

In Biology lessons, we would occasionally use a piece of equipment called a quadrat. The idea was that you take it outside, lob it around, and wherever it lands you count all the insects, plants and animals you find inside as a measure of bio-diversity.

Never did I think that THIS would be the thing that I took out of Biology A Levels...

Never did I think that THIS would be the thing that I took out of Biology A Levels…

If you chucked a quadrat around in a town in the UK, inside it you would expect to find;

1 brown and greasy McDonalds bag
4 cigarette ends
1 crisp packet
24 pieces chewing gum, crushed
1 discarded lottery scratch card
12 pieces of broken glass
1 shattered soul

In Oslo – nothing. I genuinely looked, and all I could find were some cigarette ends, and that was seriously only a few, and all around benches where people would naturally be sitting. I even looked up at one point and the fucking PIGEONS were taking a bath.

Not even joking, this little dude is drying out after taking a bath in the fountain.

Not even joking, this little dude is drying out after taking a bath in the fountain.

There was a bit of military parade, with uniforms, horses and a marching band. I simply cannot hear a band like that without expecting them to break into the music used on the Monty Python TV series. I am fairly sure that marks me as one of a slowly dying group. Nevertheless, I was delighted that they had obviously chosen to honour my arrival with such a magnificent spectacle.

Floating hippies. Of course.

Floating hippies. Of course.

During my wanderings around the town, I spotted a pub called The Scotsman. Well, it would be rude not to!

Brings back terrifying reminders of my wedding day.

Brings back terrifying reminders of my wedding day.

I actually really liked it in The Scotsman. It was nice, and dark, and the beer was good. There were a couple of kilts up on the wall, and I am sorry to say I think I recognised the tartan. It might even be the McDonald tartan, but I don’t want to investigate that any closer. This pub really reminded me of a local pub in Northampton called the Racehorse…or at least how the Racehorse used to be many years ago, before it smelled overwhelmingly of piss.

The menu made me smile. Bangers and…potato salad? We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.

20140828_142346

To be fair, it all looked pretty tasty.

While I was sat there, I saw two different kinds of uniformed personnel ride past the front door on horses. It was a bit surreal actually. I am sure it’s more common in London, but in Northampton you only ever really see horses when they are being ridden down country roads – literally and figuratively – shitting themselves as cars have to pass them on tiny bends, which make you question the riders’ 1) judgement, and 2) will to live.

I was due to meet up with a friend in the evening, but I successfully managed to squeeze in another pint before going and checking in to the hotel. I did have an interesting conversation with one of the barstaff about language before I left, which made me challenge my own perceptions a little bit, but I will go into that in more detail at another point.

My room at the Smarthotel was small but perfectly formed. I, of course, utterly filled it with crap at the first opportunity. I had a bed, a desk, a shower, toilet and TV. It was clean and comfortable and cheap, plus the hotel was really conveniently located close to shops and public transport, and I would highly recommend it to anyone planning on going to Oslo.

I magically transform every environment I am in into a shit-tip

I magically transform every environment I am in into a shit-tip

All things considered, it had been an odd little day. Not least of which was probably due to having been awake for about 7 hours longer than normal. Ignoring that though, Oslo quite unexpectedly didn’t feel all that very different from home. Yes, of course there were differences in the details; the weather was brighter, the city was cleaner, the buildings were EPIC, and the beggars were just skating on the sinister-comedy side of reality. Also, I will genuinely never get used to cars actually stopping at pedestrian crossings. Freaks me the hell out, just wandering into the road and trusting that no-one is going to take your legs out.

It was easy to navigate, comfortable, and familiar. Part of my agenda for the trip to Oslo was to see if it was a place that I could live, and I could certainly easily do that. However, I hadn’t fallen in love with it in the same way that I had Bergen. I suppose that is obvious thinking about it, since Bergen is a) so very different to anything you can experience in the UK, and b) utterly, chest-squeezingly, fucking beautiful. I wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions though; I had another four days to spend in the city and see how I got on with it.

Anyway, later that evening, I had my first experience of the T-Bane, which is the Oslo metro system. It smelled just like the London Underground and I LOVED it. The hot, greasy, mechanical, recycled air smell… it’s just…phwoarr… excuse me for a few minutes…

Hur hur.... foreskin...

Hur hur…. foreskin…