Norway? Yesway!

I tell myself Norway is going to be cold and dark.

I tell everyone else, “I’m going to the Darkness.”

So, when I arrive to Oslo Gardermoen and it’s still daylight, I’m pleasantly surprised. As I wait for the 5:43 L12 train to come take me to Oslo Central, I pull my woolen jumper over my head and tug it down then zip up my coat over it. I can see my breath in the air.

My internal persona of insecurity whispers, Don’t put on your knitted cap. No one else has one on. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.

My reason replies, Put the hat on if you’re cold. Especially since you’re just getting over a cold. Don’t be absurd. Besides, no one is even noticing you.

I put my cap on.

I’m in Norway.

This delights me. For, like an Old West Greenhorn with gunfights, I’m notching my belt with the countries I’ve visited. This makes 24.

Tuning my ears, I listen for Norwegian words. I know two: Tog is train. Takk is thank you.

On the L12, I stare out the window as we pass towns and trees and trees and trees.

It’s not that Ireland didn’t have trees, so what is it? I wonder.

It’s not until later that I make the distinction that this land hasn’t been fielded for cattle or sheep. That the trees here blend in among buildings, guard over rivers and streams, patchwork their way across the streets and earth. There are no flat-topped hedges hemming properties in.

The trees are copper, butterscotch, candy apple red, vintage rust, and every shade of green—the train blurs them into smears of painted colors as we go.

To the left, a long, narrow lake spreads blue over the Norwegian canvas, the rolling hills beyond are postcard perfect in darkening purples.

Wow, it’s beautiful. I almost say this out loud.

I change trains at Oslo Central and settle into a seat next to the window. I’m disappointed when the train heads into a long, dark tunnel. I want to see and see more while it’s still light, before the darkness comes. When we’re out again, it’s dusk. The colors have faded, the light has dimmed. We’ve arrived.

I get out at Nittedal Station. My host is just there across the platform waiting for me.

Together, we walk down the hill the half mile or so to the house where I’ll be staying for the next two months. We chat as we go. My host tells me as we make our way, “This is a shortcut. We’re almost there. My place is just beyond those buildings.”

My room is a second-story, snug 6x12 with a bed, table/desk, dresser with shelves, two wall racks of hooks for coats and jackets, and a window that looks out on autumn-turned trees, brick buildings, and beyond them the forest.

My room is immaculate. It’s minimalist but cozy. Cozy is a Norwegian word. Well, koselig is really the Norwegian word, but my host says cozy when she explains that the light is nice, but the dark winters are cozy. She wraps her arms around herself when she says it, and in that gesture, I almost feel what she means; a sense of warmth like fuzzy slippers on my feet, the heat of a fire, the comfort of a cup of spiked hot chocolate between my palms, a friend on the other end of the couch, both of us with books in hand. That’s cozy.

“Is cozy the same as Hygge?” I ask, mispronouncing the Danish word.

“No,” she says. “It’s not the same. Hygge is,” and I forget the word she uses. I wish I could remember verbatim what she says when she goes on to explain the difference between the words, between the meanings. She says something like, “We can be cozy together, you and I, but not hygge. It’s about atmosphere.” Or it’s not about only atmosphere, but also everything else. I can’t remember. But still, I almost understand the distinction, and yet still, not quite. Maybe in the end, the Danish version of Hygge is more like Norwegian Cozy, whereas Norwegian Hygge is just a warm atmosphere without the human connection.

Anyway, even in the daylight, my room is cozy. The house is cozy. My host, the other guest, and I are cozy together. It’s perfect.

The forest with its million branching, trails is only half a mile away. There I walk between the tall, thin, colorful trees. I don’t feel anything from them. They just are. They don’t menace, they don’t comfort, they don’t speak, they don’t seem to be sleeping. They just are.

After a few ventures into town and into the forest, I ask my host, “When I pass someone when I’m out walking, am I supposed to say hello?”

“In the forest,” she says. “We will nod and say hallo. But on the street…” she searches for the right word.

“It’s more private?” I hazard for her. Which isn’t really the right word, not even in English, but it’s right enough because she agrees.

“Yes, it’s more private.”

It’s not that the people are cold, they’re reserved. That is, unless they’re in the forest. Unless they’re children.

One afternoon, I go for a long forest walk. The sky is so blue I can almost taste the color; like room temperature, blueberry flavored kefir; inviting and just ever so tangy.  

I pass a woman. “Hallo,” I say.

She nods.

Be more subtle, I think.

A while later, I approach a young boy with his family in tow. I look down at him and as I start to give a little smile he puts both hands together, elbows out and says with a blueberry-sky exuberance, “Aaalloww, hallo, hallo!”

“Hallo!” I say. I exchange broad smiles with the parents and we don’t have to say anything to each other. We don’t even have to nod. The boy has done it all for us. The moment passes as we pass and go our separate ways. Even so, as I choose between a fork in the road, my steps are lighter, more skipping. For the boy’s greeting has put laughter in my soul. Oh, the joy of children. With his hallo he’s welcomed me to Norway and told me that it’s just fine to be. To be different. To be the same. To be reserved and private. To be friendly and exuberant. To be. To be. Thank goodness for children.

I walk for hours among the trees and mushrooms and soft mossed ground and then go on back home to my little room and a cup of tea.

The days vary between blue sky days of last-summery warmth and textured gray skies holding wintry promises. I settle in and each day’s light is a bit shorter than the day before. Each day passes so rapidly I can’t believe it. Don’t go by so fast, I want to say. I’ve done so much and done nothing yet at all.  

“It’s so nice here,” I tell my host when I’m talking about needing to get out and be a little bit more touristy. And I mean, so nice here with the forest nearby, the town so close, the café (though too expensive to be more than just a here and there treat) only a skip and turn down the street, the train station within walking distance, the breathtaking scenery out the window of my room, and the comfort of the cozy house. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave,” she says. And I’m not sure if she means I don’t have to go out and sightsee or if I don’t ever actually have to leave.

Either way, either meaning (koselig or hygge) it’s nice.