tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47955206144108928852024-03-05T01:09:49.001-08:00Norway RovingAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-59734510229942288642014-06-24T01:21:00.000-07:002014-06-24T01:21:21.014-07:00Raindrop's view<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUyVde1gmQ6Z8u93iPcuSFrlRiYyYlZ_kWFKi5OK2nUPeOqI33d_cF5jbLGIgWFQw5OQze7BP9mYKUvmFadD1IY6bixI_L_n6zxtCY2LYuQ5_WR-blpHdETy4I0o38TyoTLXf0oJgYtE/s1600/IMG_0527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUyVde1gmQ6Z8u93iPcuSFrlRiYyYlZ_kWFKi5OK2nUPeOqI33d_cF5jbLGIgWFQw5OQze7BP9mYKUvmFadD1IY6bixI_L_n6zxtCY2LYuQ5_WR-blpHdETy4I0o38TyoTLXf0oJgYtE/s1600/IMG_0527.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br />
I suspect that most environmental history classes at some
point present a question like this one to students: Are people really going to
line up for sewer maps the way that they line up for National Park maps?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The question is not rhetorical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is provocative. If everyday people in the industrialized
world are going to take better care of the Earth, they probably need to pay
more attention to where our waste goes and where our energy originates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By “pay more attention”, I mean become
fascinated, become obsessed, become curious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem, of course, is that mapping our energy and our
waste do not always grab our attention the way that mapping our transcendence
and our bravado do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are people
really going to line up for sewer maps the way that they line up for National
Parks maps?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not unless we find a
way to make those sewer maps pretty interesting. </div>
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Norway doesn't have all the answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they seem to be
on very good track with their manhole covers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Manhole covers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of the cities that I visited in Norway had a unique manhole cover,
one that drew my attention even faster than the admonishment one sees so often on other street covers: “Storm drains to
sea.”</div>
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I first noticed the covers when one of the Fulbright English
Teaching Assistants mentioned that she was considering making a documentary
film about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a bit more
curious after she mentioned them. I found <a href="http://www.framtiden.no/english/supplychain/the-story-behind-the-manholes.html">this</a> disturbing article about their manufacture, a good reminder that being curious about the conditions of nature often means being curious about the conditions of labor. <br />
<br />
I started taking pictures whenever I
visited someplace new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some
mimicked the city crest, like Oslo's shown above.<br />
<br /></div>
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And Stavanger's</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LxHFl9aCKnpAdOyqF4KTInjdh9Qi7q7tDHjb8TNeVQGB26mAiQtyEQMbzB2mMJQl_GVaf4BP4Zw6ce7q44k3QmTT55y6jsupiHz-B8JuNoeb5yTlIkZKOSaTIOppEYTr6cQwjyB4dEA/s1600/IMG_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LxHFl9aCKnpAdOyqF4KTInjdh9Qi7q7tDHjb8TNeVQGB26mAiQtyEQMbzB2mMJQl_GVaf4BP4Zw6ce7q44k3QmTT55y6jsupiHz-B8JuNoeb5yTlIkZKOSaTIOppEYTr6cQwjyB4dEA/s1600/IMG_0160.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
and Kristiansand's<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5Ry6Duk9yb-TMbmj6AVwvrnMK6jtJZjyMY2cC4rcVh-Z4bjZDb9PPJUdNLJ6G6K4luH7eFhMYYGScx44CnBuSrlaQ6wc6YtFX6q7HFJunuOiREn_Q_gFF7D7aoXXJAX3rArHz6wrdQE/s1600/IMG_0189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV5Ry6Duk9yb-TMbmj6AVwvrnMK6jtJZjyMY2cC4rcVh-Z4bjZDb9PPJUdNLJ6G6K4luH7eFhMYYGScx44CnBuSrlaQ6wc6YtFX6q7HFJunuOiREn_Q_gFF7D7aoXXJAX3rArHz6wrdQE/s1600/IMG_0189.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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and Trondheim's:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKTevUByO5DMtHZI9_nP0XO5x6xMyvFN6gmyNLxYU8g00ZC0nY4GVRNWA1Gn67JQGgBDxoAi5qo5MOjI-P4ZjWftP8r9blmP35klWB9mXh0NvZZBeKy9nheEMQv0pkdVvqaBPyOzyZQw/s1600/IMG_0243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKTevUByO5DMtHZI9_nP0XO5x6xMyvFN6gmyNLxYU8g00ZC0nY4GVRNWA1Gn67JQGgBDxoAi5qo5MOjI-P4ZjWftP8r9blmP35klWB9mXh0NvZZBeKy9nheEMQv0pkdVvqaBPyOzyZQw/s1600/IMG_0243.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I always imagined a mirror city underground, with all the
same personalities of the town somehow reflected -- like Nightmare Before
Christmas or, maybe, to be a bit more Norwegian: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lioYYQhREo">Bakvendtland</a>.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Some celebrated the area's landscape and architecture, like Drammen:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8d12zXDyYmbR7Is12HdUqMewzUyQgA7RmPkJ-SwEeeps2XQE8lOVAFm3VOXPT24r-g_FbG5zsfrXSwBroAjSC8kGCwn_731L-YkVNUF9BcBCZWNhR-2-y4aUDv8XKGg7z_RPRAEsjbQ/s1600/IMG_0476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8d12zXDyYmbR7Is12HdUqMewzUyQgA7RmPkJ-SwEeeps2XQE8lOVAFm3VOXPT24r-g_FbG5zsfrXSwBroAjSC8kGCwn_731L-YkVNUF9BcBCZWNhR-2-y4aUDv8XKGg7z_RPRAEsjbQ/s1600/IMG_0476.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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Bergen:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvuXolW-MPVzNorQGNKx7XcLE1mWof2dBqWfkO5zJDNXCbR9o9GikhzrdMjkSqQVOu1V-ZGpHubhX3GbpjY8X0TVQKiBlnCYgJeVk-k8LnmG57Tpyz6HzskFzsMDyaxpQYY0RREtls2M/s1600/IMG_0361.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvuXolW-MPVzNorQGNKx7XcLE1mWof2dBqWfkO5zJDNXCbR9o9GikhzrdMjkSqQVOu1V-ZGpHubhX3GbpjY8X0TVQKiBlnCYgJeVk-k8LnmG57Tpyz6HzskFzsMDyaxpQYY0RREtls2M/s1600/IMG_0361.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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And Ålesund:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQETh9gUzWm1APq8MFS8pGUUxPsl8Rg5CWB3yxGWBLl5HCUbxhfntJJKzUK99Qo6EmqQkaeuDR1vYnmxYgctvCMCXkZICjK8xNDvwNgovZKjmBZFoa4yVXaQhjin6WjRx9LAyQVJenBBI/s1600/IMG_0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQETh9gUzWm1APq8MFS8pGUUxPsl8Rg5CWB3yxGWBLl5HCUbxhfntJJKzUK99Qo6EmqQkaeuDR1vYnmxYgctvCMCXkZICjK8xNDvwNgovZKjmBZFoa4yVXaQhjin6WjRx9LAyQVJenBBI/s1600/IMG_0103.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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Covers like Ålesund's sent me looking for more, and I learned that Norway does not have a monopoly on the concept. <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/ulysse19/manhole-covers/">Canada</a> has some great manhole covers. And I'd like to go to <a href="http://www.booooooom.com/2012/05/16/beautiful-japanese-manhole-covers/">Japan</a> for the manhole covers alone!</div>
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<br /></div>
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As spring began, I became a bit obsessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I need a picture of the sewer drain
cover!” I told one teacher in Sandefjord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Everyone has their thing,” she replied
dubiously.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60Gi22OWnMkBxFNJx3rA9swGSV6Nb9o-amac7elyiw6xqj5KmRTJaM923X5AO-oNUBXx4FfHiE-EtQW6mVlOUd7QCUvhR9SSMPjBp6NWU4iq96eqzIbRhkNUnvOzr9-ulkKfM5ow3Nco/s1600/IMG_0420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60Gi22OWnMkBxFNJx3rA9swGSV6Nb9o-amac7elyiw6xqj5KmRTJaM923X5AO-oNUBXx4FfHiE-EtQW6mVlOUd7QCUvhR9SSMPjBp6NWU4iq96eqzIbRhkNUnvOzr9-ulkKfM5ow3Nco/s1600/IMG_0420.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My very favorite appeared in more than one city – a God’s eye view of
the town with rooftops and umbrellas mixed in an almost abstract tumble. This one is from Stord: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If most made me think of the view
underground, this one made me think of a raindrop’s perspective.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<br /></div>
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With just a few days remaining in our stay, I realize that I
missed some. Bodø's and Lillehammer's were, understandably, covered with snow. I never made it to Tromsø or Alta, and I think I had a chance for photos in Røros and Verdal, but
missed them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I should mention that I, regrettably, also never made it to
one of Norway’s national parks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Guess which one will bring me back. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-54130260096379788702014-06-13T05:30:00.000-07:002014-06-13T05:30:30.431-07:00The Kvikk Lunsj Tur
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<!--StartFragment-->
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My son tells me that what I will miss most about Norway is Kvikk
Lunsj, a candy bar that is remarkably similar to an American brand that rhymes
with Chit-Chat. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5-0-4u5UcM">I believe KvikkLunsj is better and that in a blind taste test I could distinguish the two, but I am probably kidding myself</a>. In
any case, I love them. I really,
really love them. My family gave
them to me in lieu of a birthday cake because I love them so. They are not at all good for you. They are not high quality chocolate. They are junk food. And I love them.</div>
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I tried my first Kvikk Lunsj because they’re a common snack
on weekend ski trips. You put one
in your pocket with an orange and head out. Kvikk Lunsj is far superior when consumed chilled. “If this can keep skiers going, it can
keep me going, right?” I rationalized that first time. And then it became my standard backpack
snack, my protection against a delayed flight or train or misreading the bus
schedule. </div>
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Since I knew that I was deluding myself, I dug in
deeper. Kvikk Lunsj wrappers
include a description of a hike or walk in locations all over Norway. They always end with the injunction:
“God søndagstur!” I started trying to translate the wrappers to justify my
purchases. I got extra excited
every time I was in the location profiled on the Kvikk Lunsj wrapper. I took pictures of the wrappers of the
bars that I had consumed:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGUy_JbSv_R_B4DQM_hB-uElXknInN3SVJaicEbYiWPn3URpMw4GNVWs_1ilUkyrV8mWYsl0H-facD02FB8dTfFgHpJit_PbZ5Zil_7CmUcJxMu2jAiNkzmePVLkwy2t7nojO_FHmmo4/s1600/IMG_0144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGUy_JbSv_R_B4DQM_hB-uElXknInN3SVJaicEbYiWPn3URpMw4GNVWs_1ilUkyrV8mWYsl0H-facD02FB8dTfFgHpJit_PbZ5Zil_7CmUcJxMu2jAiNkzmePVLkwy2t7nojO_FHmmo4/s1600/IMG_0144.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fzV4MN_z3jjYCsy7CfOHjMcxhf-6VxEBicGKIaPkaR8OZI7brUusnYDLW2Z2L49eGIv8Fy-rYVI1br_obymsASzdA9TKQtSyxx4-VHK3ZoHv6uMcAwVM23k358fRwnaKHUX4zNu8ZA0/s1600/IMG_0142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5fzV4MN_z3jjYCsy7CfOHjMcxhf-6VxEBicGKIaPkaR8OZI7brUusnYDLW2Z2L49eGIv8Fy-rYVI1br_obymsASzdA9TKQtSyxx4-VHK3ZoHv6uMcAwVM23k358fRwnaKHUX4zNu8ZA0/s1600/IMG_0142.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJnZtMookAXT1GPXJWKWNBwxqvLo_LmtkbL53S9w0ekQJmb5WMsUa2oCoYXLRVyh385w9vdnqxrnMS5i6JxDWznIkg15a3rJZwZlPM5jGoVr_p0Pk9lKUc7SZ46jTd8IOr7722GWj_-A/s1600/IMG_0157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJnZtMookAXT1GPXJWKWNBwxqvLo_LmtkbL53S9w0ekQJmb5WMsUa2oCoYXLRVyh385w9vdnqxrnMS5i6JxDWznIkg15a3rJZwZlPM5jGoVr_p0Pk9lKUc7SZ46jTd8IOr7722GWj_-A/s1600/IMG_0157.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZxMkiNcaV6W3sijmR0edebs1nxzi2qRyuUhDiTCZ_3kvzeRi1ygudPUiQzrIk3n3N81rN1LW6uJEyKYKQ73q1obw4OvKHWU2FBmLewVct5CBNkAHiiIEFiIrP2jxdAhKK3SMLGWKAC8/s1600/IMG_0146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZxMkiNcaV6W3sijmR0edebs1nxzi2qRyuUhDiTCZ_3kvzeRi1ygudPUiQzrIk3n3N81rN1LW6uJEyKYKQ73q1obw4OvKHWU2FBmLewVct5CBNkAHiiIEFiIrP2jxdAhKK3SMLGWKAC8/s1600/IMG_0146.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">(until I became embarrassed by the number). More than once, I actually took the
hike.</span><br />
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When I was in Bergen with my family, we even went to the <a href="http://www.kvikklunsj.no/">KvikkLunsj</a> website, where consumers post pictures of their Kvikk Lunsj God Søndag Turs. And everyone looks really
happy. And remarkably fit, given
that they’re eating junk food.</div>
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Off we went on our Kvikk Lunsj hike. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5zPgJOeEQRR6iqe04nzdRGmeukSL64ZyTr4zQa1IvDYsFKU1tWSg9_BO89v-r2yS2D6e5Xq5rPthWs7OCdDrTAv7hCWuDMsEGWTHBUhf60Wo5adArBL5HaojLgGMQYDKG9SXlFYeQC0/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5zPgJOeEQRR6iqe04nzdRGmeukSL64ZyTr4zQa1IvDYsFKU1tWSg9_BO89v-r2yS2D6e5Xq5rPthWs7OCdDrTAv7hCWuDMsEGWTHBUhf60Wo5adArBL5HaojLgGMQYDKG9SXlFYeQC0/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMMA4nebs1se47VRIu_0HhAA0RHP1dv5Mq0phEUW40mcLsw6Pld1hufCGTG-1B63kUwCnwL-EjV6P5r_Ch_NRYcSlwCRbZlaoEu9dNKgs4_HDoyxQdFjxLivF9RtBLajgYUte6eAO4PuI/s1600/IMG_0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMMA4nebs1se47VRIu_0HhAA0RHP1dv5Mq0phEUW40mcLsw6Pld1hufCGTG-1B63kUwCnwL-EjV6P5r_Ch_NRYcSlwCRbZlaoEu9dNKgs4_HDoyxQdFjxLivF9RtBLajgYUte6eAO4PuI/s1600/IMG_0338.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was teaching later in the day and had
forgotten proper walking shoes and a hat. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZp2hQ4WwZKIYRmq9IXU-IFntZ0GZwAy5VrIbp_zbYDIzCBvinXK21i967HzEzA1v0kHmP343aLmQWi3-R_qRSCRkCrqw6kn0DPEDzfW52Y_0hqByL-HMxWpbuyW_iErhllMhvIIUE9xo/s1600/IMG_0725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZp2hQ4WwZKIYRmq9IXU-IFntZ0GZwAy5VrIbp_zbYDIzCBvinXK21i967HzEzA1v0kHmP343aLmQWi3-R_qRSCRkCrqw6kn0DPEDzfW52Y_0hqByL-HMxWpbuyW_iErhllMhvIIUE9xo/s1600/IMG_0725.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Really, the only Norwegian thing about me that morning was my Kvikk
Lunsj. </div>
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I mused about whether
Americans would be healthier (and would dress more appropriately for the
weather) if our junk food came wrapped in hiking suggestions.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkVTpE6ZXt8mSmiDVdSi0IBdUN-zTxYHbazrgobXCVcMRpLFN9pUrFVPvpR592A4lPPypBFV2yeWH5yM_w40DBz0mVIvfxe3LMBqn-RQ5vv7lLH2P1OYo986TzbTfnw4Xf1OT5zIdvxjE/s1600/IMG_0341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkVTpE6ZXt8mSmiDVdSi0IBdUN-zTxYHbazrgobXCVcMRpLFN9pUrFVPvpR592A4lPPypBFV2yeWH5yM_w40DBz0mVIvfxe3LMBqn-RQ5vv7lLH2P1OYo986TzbTfnw4Xf1OT5zIdvxjE/s1600/IMG_0341.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Perhaps the real question I should be exploring here is
whether Kvikk Lunsj is the magical ingredient necessary for Americans to affect
that look of European ennui. Don’t
deny it. You know the look.)</div>
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Lately, I haven’t had much Kvikk Lunsj. My teaching obligations are
complete. I’ve begun to pack and
clean. And the weather really
isn’t right for it. They really
are better served chilled. So
maybe it’s not what I will miss most.
We’ll see, come next year’s birthday. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGODGncK9l5dsPxP-E2Yljt9kGJtIz7U_a3UxYFg2cn6HnitfD3vLhPYki9zXgYI4vQ3y_MDuFlD72fgaiW67L2IFjQZUVzZ9-uBk0BRsY52fhklNi2y32mj3DVN-0-u6CWxS9Mz2Cs4/s1600/IMG_0345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGODGncK9l5dsPxP-E2Yljt9kGJtIz7U_a3UxYFg2cn6HnitfD3vLhPYki9zXgYI4vQ3y_MDuFlD72fgaiW67L2IFjQZUVzZ9-uBk0BRsY52fhklNi2y32mj3DVN-0-u6CWxS9Mz2Cs4/s1600/IMG_0345.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-32794366008750542362014-06-12T05:41:00.000-07:002014-06-12T05:41:38.996-07:00Food is Politics<div class="MsoNormal">
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I spotted this street art in Bergen on my first visit there
and absolutely loved it.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJc2UCYrNb-q-ijP5LPaQcVbeBQLQQdShS0_AWlrtEI7NGGz1W3r7_cVGq09GRZVFsuqHnGgXk7rAK3_lX7Lq08C8qJ3INUNusRAy-WyT0xLXLphgbRGPYzzLyv_lRKYh7EFUfH5L7sk/s1600/IMG_0062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJc2UCYrNb-q-ijP5LPaQcVbeBQLQQdShS0_AWlrtEI7NGGz1W3r7_cVGq09GRZVFsuqHnGgXk7rAK3_lX7Lq08C8qJ3INUNusRAy-WyT0xLXLphgbRGPYzzLyv_lRKYh7EFUfH5L7sk/s1600/IMG_0062.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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“Food <b>is</b> politics!” I thought to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so excited in October to be in a
nation where people eat more healthily and take better care of their bodies
than they do in the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was confident that smaller farms and less fast food would mean
healthier food and healthier bodies for me and my family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We will eat fish and hearty bread and
exercise in really warm spandex!” I resolved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have done most of that (not the spandex part), but I’ve
found especially as we near our return home that I’m less and less interested
in virtuous food and exercise and more and more interested in communal food and
exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I care less about how
food and exercise makes me feel and more about how it connects me to
others.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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None of which is to say that food is not politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teachers have filled me in on debates
on the west coast over whether Norway’s famous brown cheese should be an
allowed snack in preschools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
very high in calories and fat and not even cheese, technically, as it’s made
from the whey, but there’s almost nothing more Norwegian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJryFzMVF-kCErq3rnUFMi0gbkuo1eAFfDRvh7FcDKLcLcj8pwB3VGUYHx5sUdYNceij7FCQCavC7Rxd0fMAnJyEvMf0p-5Tsyo1aqvbAWKDUUDUmCxKBPFesDPxJOEu5b-VBGsthfjw/s1600/brown+cheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJryFzMVF-kCErq3rnUFMi0gbkuo1eAFfDRvh7FcDKLcLcj8pwB3VGUYHx5sUdYNceij7FCQCavC7Rxd0fMAnJyEvMf0p-5Tsyo1aqvbAWKDUUDUmCxKBPFesDPxJOEu5b-VBGsthfjw/s1600/brown+cheese.jpg" /></a></div>
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(Image from <a href="http://www.nordicnibbler.com/">Nordic Nibbler</a> -- the fabulous blog that kept us eating well in Oslo.) </div>
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Especially after I visited the <a href="http://sjh.no/english/">Sogn Jordog Hagebrukskule</a>, an organic farm on Norway’s west coast and one of the most
ecologically sensitive farms in Europe (They use almost all animal labor), I
became intrigued with some efforts to make Norway’s family farms here more
corporate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I visited only as a tourist, not a rover.) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2ywDzGiqFcxBjWS9Xrk_vdTSwtMpwJFxs-3Ad_7F7kyKi0CoUZk9Xv4DavpYlRsAx6u8Z0JVSno-1h54kQP5jeMXqXlOh_uPsT8M9eiaoy0Fk-U-yws3PcOchwy3SSKJIklioFPbMBo/s1600/IMG_0446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2ywDzGiqFcxBjWS9Xrk_vdTSwtMpwJFxs-3Ad_7F7kyKi0CoUZk9Xv4DavpYlRsAx6u8Z0JVSno-1h54kQP5jeMXqXlOh_uPsT8M9eiaoy0Fk-U-yws3PcOchwy3SSKJIklioFPbMBo/s1600/IMG_0446.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblSxD5MnS3MIwjzFok98ATeY27LHmqw2Thbkh7e7HC-CGvkgvYCXF0Cuw6sVl86s6WIHHqgrdJiEWEUI3oSatqATJeF3z2LBSJyVurP-k8_mlLKeP4Wy3f3_mCmgXfF3tWpjiS2i-nek/s1600/IMG_0447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblSxD5MnS3MIwjzFok98ATeY27LHmqw2Thbkh7e7HC-CGvkgvYCXF0Cuw6sVl86s6WIHHqgrdJiEWEUI3oSatqATJeF3z2LBSJyVurP-k8_mlLKeP4Wy3f3_mCmgXfF3tWpjiS2i-nek/s1600/IMG_0447.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopUroPiRlhT4ubl-qPYDPOfX9zNragBHCXW8kxWJ4h8OAJbCyBAOXS_28QR4aYyPIMLpwWqPAxelKhaN7hIXPweU593P2wqpJAQw9p8speZwr5YW158ttKrEbDhP2zZdGTNzJC_Ui23Q/s1600/IMG_0449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopUroPiRlhT4ubl-qPYDPOfX9zNragBHCXW8kxWJ4h8OAJbCyBAOXS_28QR4aYyPIMLpwWqPAxelKhaN7hIXPweU593P2wqpJAQw9p8speZwr5YW158ttKrEbDhP2zZdGTNzJC_Ui23Q/s1600/IMG_0449.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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It seems like such a
shame to move from the family farm tradition in a nation that takes such
well-deserved pride in its farming efforts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As well they should – it’s not easy to grow stuff here!</div>
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But most of my thinking about food in Norway has been more
emotional, maybe even more primal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After reading <a href="https://store.mcsweeneys.net/products/mcsweeneys-issue-35">Hans Herbejørnsrud’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“On an Old Farmstead in Europe”</a> (in translation, of course),
I was reminded of writing about the U.S. farming tradition in the upper
Midwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought of the book, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780877452171-0">“APlace of Sense”</a>; and an anthropology project my uncle, an agronomist, mentioned
to me in which a scholar is studying gas station coffee shops near grain silos
where Midwestern farmers spend their free moments; and Willa Cather’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Á</span>ntonia</i>
and <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63832.Blue_Highways">William Least Heat-Moon</a> and the maps that show <a href="http://www.vox.com/a/explain-food-america">fewer and fewer farms in the U.S.</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than one Wednesday found
me lamenting our distance from our St. Louis CSA, <a href="http://fairshares.org/">Fair Shares</a>, and the
extraordinary blueberries and butter and lamb and carrots and broccoli and potato
chips and chocolate and all-round camaraderie among farmers and local food
producers that they provide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have closed my eyes as I smelled red chile cooking and smiled with recognition
as ex-pats from other countries described the near painful pleasure of smelling
a dish from home.</div>
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My happiest moments have been sharing the farms of friends –
on the west coast in Norway where my UWC classmate Nynke has a year-old goat
farm and makes cheese with her family and outside Helsinki, Finland where my
UWC classmate Veera has family who have given their land to a cooperative
farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m in awe of how ready
Nynke and her family are to learn new skills -- from how to operate the cheese
press to how to protect their goats from preying birds to how to build a tree
house. Meanwhile, they are making really good cheese!</div>
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The story of Veera’s farm
seemed to come straight from the pages of progressive-era history. Her great grandfather was an ardent
reformer and prohibitionist and even brought reforms from the U.S. to
Finland. He was constantly in the
city, but he wanted his son to be a farmer (not unlike many people of the age
who sought to reform the city and recharge in the country). His son had other ideas, but the farm
has stayed in the family and now operates as a CSA. Much of the area surrounding the farm is protected by the
government. I asked Veera why and
she said: “Oh, the government always likes to be protecting land, especially in
suburban areas to give people places to walk.” I was struck by the differences between U.S. and Finnish
land use patterns. We finished our
tour by collecting rhubarb in a nearby field. It grows wild and serves the entire neighborhood. As Veera showed us around, I told her
about our CSA (I talk about it a lot here.) and Nynke’s farm. She looked around and said: “It’s so
strange. We are all doing the same
thing in so many different places.”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a commonplace to say that food is culture, but it’s
terribly true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell and taste
of food are also the smell and taste of home and of distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food is politics, to be sure, but too
much of food in the U.S. is about virtuous counting: of calories, of bottom
lines, of returns on acres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food
is also friendship and connection and challenge and surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which, now that I think of it, maybe
means politics is friendship and connection and challenge and surprise.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess that I should chew on that for a while.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-19465937645291510472014-04-24T09:15:00.001-07:002014-04-24T09:15:27.886-07:00What is your context?<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In March I visited the <a href="http://uwcrcn.no/">Red Cross Nordic United WorldCollege</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RCN-UWC is an
international boarding school with students aged 16-20 from over seventy
different countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was
there, the school was celebrating Las Americas, during which Americans, from
Canada to Argentina, share aspects of their culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As I wandered through the afternoon bazaar, where I tried
Paraguayan sweet bread and learned U.S. history trivia, a young man stopped
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you…why…how did…I heard
someone was here interviewing….” he trailed off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What is your context?” he finally
asked decisively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overlapping with my visit were job interviews for a Swedish
literature teaching position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
my first day on campus, a blonde woman had been spotted with members of the
faculty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was rumored to be
very pretty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not
blonde, which, no doubt, was the source of the young man’s confusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had struggled with the question, but
he probably had no inkling of the tailspin he had induced as I tried to think
of an answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
is my context?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve written <a href="http://www.historians.org/publications-and-directories/perspectives-on-history/january-2007/what-does-it-mean-to-think-historically">elsewhere</a> on the meaning of context to
historians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally, we give two
definitions to the term.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We use
the first definition to describe our process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By weaving together our sources – letters, diaries, watch
chains, declassified government documents, ship manifests – we create a world
for our readers so that they see the times we are describing from the inside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
is my context?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hastened to explain to the young man that I was a graduate
of the <a href="http://www.uwc.org/">United World Colleges</a> myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I attended <a href="http://www.uwc-usa.org/">the sister school in the United States</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both schools are parts of a global
consortium – there are fourteen schools in all today – that seek to foster
international peace, understanding, and sustainability through education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>UWC was far and away the best
educational experience of my entire life, and I was in a state of excited
delight virtually every minute of my time RCN-UWC.
</div>
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The schools were founded by Kurt Hahn, a German educational experimenter
who was also instrumental in the founding of Outward Bound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along with Lord Mountbatten and others,
Hahn founded the first UWC in Wales in 1962.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The school and its descendents encourage outdoor exploration
and experiential adventures – like Las Americas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All follow the International Baccalaureate curriculum, which
requires service activities and other involvement in the community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Most UWCs are located in remote and stunning natural
locations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RCN-UWC, near
the tiny town of Flekke in fjord country, is no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxIDdLYSx8omojmGEFB0mGhwOnHJptJOWO4xm9NQ5Q6hqKmaZgHg44Q1C5NwjkCnvCDp7qXbCXs1SWz38FYGc2E0va-ravZ5bM8WwJSwTl8pbVfOoOajwC9OsynAuV8HmeAVqcd5EmM4/s1600/IMG_0458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxIDdLYSx8omojmGEFB0mGhwOnHJptJOWO4xm9NQ5Q6hqKmaZgHg44Q1C5NwjkCnvCDp7qXbCXs1SWz38FYGc2E0va-ravZ5bM8WwJSwTl8pbVfOoOajwC9OsynAuV8HmeAVqcd5EmM4/s1600/IMG_0458.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKMgCGxLlWinCQEdgJswWt5R748tTtYQ0f8zReoTzuF_h5Jl59OgKT08zzG8Beb8s5uefG0jRp6Q1xAX0BZRFXY31bmk4KdmFdb98G6etfZMkqCVQXW2taAeNDjQxMrm6RAf4lCYKSB0/s1600/IMG_0457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKMgCGxLlWinCQEdgJswWt5R748tTtYQ0f8zReoTzuF_h5Jl59OgKT08zzG8Beb8s5uefG0jRp6Q1xAX0BZRFXY31bmk4KdmFdb98G6etfZMkqCVQXW2taAeNDjQxMrm6RAf4lCYKSB0/s1600/IMG_0457.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I mentioned it to one teacher in
Oslo, she said that she would love to bring students from her own school there,
but she added: “It’s easier to take them to London.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>UWC-USA is located in Montezuma, New Mexico, a town so small
that even many New Mexicans do not know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The isolation and surrounding beauty in both places make for
inviting environments to explore with newfound friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfN-eju6mXUBNiy7ufApnb0X7ZmCq0T34PbfdpX6jMMumkX3-Mil4klCId5PTeS-Rp9EdrgaUtYZvedbybAdJ0HekurNgEBga3iRXFVo2QLoXvdmT6ztw0Lm2BGMdeZq4NNMf0jS4stE/s1600/IMG_0449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfN-eju6mXUBNiy7ufApnb0X7ZmCq0T34PbfdpX6jMMumkX3-Mil4klCId5PTeS-Rp9EdrgaUtYZvedbybAdJ0HekurNgEBga3iRXFVo2QLoXvdmT6ztw0Lm2BGMdeZq4NNMf0jS4stE/s1600/IMG_0449.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have long thought that the UWC
movement would make an excellent environmental history topic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hahn’s story alone – he was expelled
from Germany when he spoke openly against Hitler and the Nazis; he decried many
of modern life’s traits, from easy distraction to sedentary indoor life; and he
influenced multiple educational movements – invites an environmental history
inquiry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shared virtually none of this when I gave my answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said: “I went to the UWC in the U.S.
almost 25 years ago.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second definition of context is more like the setting
for a play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To contextualize is to
set the stage for the events that we are describing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To “take something out of context” when reading literature
is to misunderstand the meaning of the text itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To “take something out of context” when describing history
is to engage in anachronism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
to misunderstand the time itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What is my context?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having covered how I knew about the school, I still hadn’t
explained to the young man just what I was doing there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I hastened to add a quick
description of Norway’s Fulbright Roving Scholar program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the UWCs, the Fulbright program
was an educational response to the fractures of World War II.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By fostering scholarly exchange the
program sought and seeks to foster international understanding as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But only Norway has the Roving Scholar
program that this year has taken me and two other Rovers across Norway -- from
Kristiansand to Svaalbard – to visit secondary schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was suffused with nostalgia during my
visit to RCN-UWC, but I couldn’t avoid thinking about the school as a school,
just like I’ve done on other campuses in Norway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept saying that I felt like I was 17 and 42 at the same
time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor could I quite turn off my historian’s mind or, at least,
the guilty feeling that I should keep my critical faculties about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There is no perfect time and place.” I
tell my students firmly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Things
haven’t just gotten worse and worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Things don’t just get better and better.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found it hard to observe this injunction at RCN-UWC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students seemed to come from a greater
variety of economic backgrounds than my classmates and I did a quarter century
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The student body included a
larger number of refugees, and there was more attention refugees’ status
globally (Not least because IB now includes a geography course).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was hard to
believe that I had ever had such energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After classes concluded on Thursday, students headed to their
activities, and, as far as I could tell, pretty much taught themselves for
another three hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was
before practice for the Las Americas show and dinner and homework.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some students travel regularly to
Bergen – over a two-hour journey -- to study Mandarin as a third or fourth
language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did notice that there was less outdoor activity than at my
school back in the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>UWC-USA
has a search and rescue team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many
of the other UWCs have similar service activities that take their students
outside, but RCN-UWC does not (The school does have a Red Cross rehabilitation center at which many of the students volunteer).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although the campus has ready access to Norway’s well-maintained trail
network, one avid hiker told me that most students do not head out to the hills
often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was much
conversation about the food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Norway’s northern climate, the school’s remote location, and, I imagine,
the hunger of two hundred teenagers, makes for a cafeteria budget challenge,
especially when balancing the dietary needs of representatives of dozens of
cultures and political positions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Variety
and vegetarian options were slim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
said, the day rooms smelled just like they did in my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Food may have globalized, but the smell
of noodles, stir fry, and cinnamon toast appears to have remained a
constant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Each historical moment
is unique!” I tell my students back at SLU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But maybe some things are universal. (Below: shoe dryers and dorm art)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz4YsroOZKA2EareFEMEnRkQ1iID2BoVtGEnFZE2ZnoN_TOi33-fVtnjFquOg4WdnXyCUbWcuqnxEg_lOH63dRwjR7AEuGt4UGAuO5RcjF4l4ODjNuqNk02nIzdDRDKMAJKirCwb2o7c/s1600/IMG_0439.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz4YsroOZKA2EareFEMEnRkQ1iID2BoVtGEnFZE2ZnoN_TOi33-fVtnjFquOg4WdnXyCUbWcuqnxEg_lOH63dRwjR7AEuGt4UGAuO5RcjF4l4ODjNuqNk02nIzdDRDKMAJKirCwb2o7c/s1600/IMG_0439.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasRBSnKwouzjUUP7_4WUeZnzPaOw8NZa_1DwqHI9bGVJw9QKeNLhqzTg7ru4g1fK6q-m1IoRWgSVYYo4cZOGGAnMRJfHrYTKt_DoyLUQw-LuaA7VVzClIOX4Mo-DrtuiBOIsqS7ZuYz8/s1600/IMG_0469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasRBSnKwouzjUUP7_4WUeZnzPaOw8NZa_1DwqHI9bGVJw9QKeNLhqzTg7ru4g1fK6q-m1IoRWgSVYYo4cZOGGAnMRJfHrYTKt_DoyLUQw-LuaA7VVzClIOX4Mo-DrtuiBOIsqS7ZuYz8/s1600/IMG_0469.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I did not make this young man, perhaps interested in Swedish
literature, listen to my entire reverie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rather, I said something like my standard: “I’m here as part of a
scholarly exchange program called Fulbright that takes me to secondary schools
all over Norway.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3H8p-TXQd4-wJAs4P8AYPT9SZuhuRyKt-60vibkWK_myDny0V6ScII2aUgnEoU4H3dXt5HLWkVolACY7X6S13tWUTj0DgkkBapi6AJ0QBuSFOjGfya3_6wjQ49HDyE09o__tbM9aDGc/s1600/IMG_0438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3H8p-TXQd4-wJAs4P8AYPT9SZuhuRyKt-60vibkWK_myDny0V6ScII2aUgnEoU4H3dXt5HLWkVolACY7X6S13tWUTj0DgkkBapi6AJ0QBuSFOjGfya3_6wjQ49HDyE09o__tbM9aDGc/s1600/IMG_0438.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As I struggled to be just a bit more critical in the days
during and following my visit, I mentioned my challenge to a variety of
teachers and students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
brought my attention back to a few issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the UWC movement persists, there is the danger that it
will merely reproduce itself, rather than grow and change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A number of students asked if my son
would attend UWC, and though I answered that the decision was his, it will be
hard not to hide my enthusiasm for the UWC movement as he grows older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many other potential “legacy”
students are out there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And is UWC
best for them or for folks for whom the experience will be brand new?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students from socially conservative
communities often struggle when they return home, and their reverse culture
shock can restrict their opportunities as much as their education broadened
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had heard such criticisms when I was a student, but the
reservation that caused me the greatest doubt was new: carbon footprint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve visited around thirty towns and
cities this year, most by plane, and that doesn’t count family holiday trips to
Rome and Paris or a guest lecture in Budapest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One convocation at one UWC probably repeats that experience at
least a hundredfold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can the globe
sustain it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of course!" I
would have proclaimed when I was a UWC student.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We still need international peace and understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever challenges the world faces, we
will solve them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world needs
UWC!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, my body sore from a day sitting on a plane and my voice
hoarse from a day of teaching, I feel less confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I need this kind of travel?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does the world? My context has changed and the world’s has
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet I came back
from RCN-UWC glowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For days, I
couldn’t stop telling people about the school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alongside all I’ve learned from my Fulbright Fellowship,
it’s impossible to look away from UWC’s value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Education is the most comprehensive and direct route to
international understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>UWC students
may now chatter with their families on laptops instead of hovering near the pay
phone in the hall, but we still need human connection to grow and learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write in a different world context
than when I was a student, but the world still needs UWC. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-15675020401506863192014-04-02T12:45:00.000-07:002014-04-02T12:45:28.114-07:00It's not the end of the world<div class="MsoNormal">
Way back in the fall I overlapped with one of my fellow
rovers in the southern part of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to the opportunity to observe her teach, which
was a fabulous learning experience for me, we also had a chance to explore the
area a bit together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A teacher had
suggested that we go to Verdens Ende – the End of the World.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We set off after classes had concluded
in the late afternoon and arrived almost at dusk to an unearthly
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area is well
named indeed.</div>
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I had plenty of time to write a blog entry about the end of the world, but somehow the place never seemed to fit into the themes and concerns that I was exploring. The area was certainly naturally beautiful. The experience of getting directions from one Norwegian after another as Sarah cheerfully asked: “We’re trying to get to the end of the world?” seemed to be perfect fodder for a traveler’s journal, but the experience sat, waiting, I think, for more perspective.</div>
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My last school visit in December was to Bardufoss, my northernmost visit scheduled to date. Since it looked like our best chance to see the Northern Lights, my family came with me. I had not paid much attention to the calendar of Oslo events when I was scheduling, but as the date neared, I realized that the visit overlapped with the Nobel Prize ceremony. Other Fulbrighters were attending the ceremony, and, although I wasn’t one of the lucky ones with a ticket, I had wanted to participate in a candlelit vigil outside the Peace Center celebrating the recipients of the prize. But…the Northern Lights! With my family! At the top of the world! It seemed like the supreme environmental history dilemma – the choice between the pinnacle of human culture – a scheduled, certain celebration of the best of human ingenuity and compassion -- and the pinnacle of nature – the sublime touch of the universe on the skin of the Earth’s atmosphere. </div>
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So we headed out each night we were in Bardufoss, fleeing the surprisingly large amount of urban light to maybe, maybe see the Northern Lights. Our first night was clear: good conditions! We had been reading the Golden Compass as a family, and I imagined our dæmons running alongside the car, wolves or foxes maybe, tossing the snow with delight. My husband and I stretched and stretched our son’s bedtime, peering into the darkness. We were reminded of the skies over Zuni Pueblo and of adventures from long before our son was born. We were on top of the world! </div>
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But we did not see the Northern Lights. The next night was cloudy. The night after we returned too late for the candlelit vigil. “Well,” I consoled myself, “It’s not the end of the world.”<br />
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Almost a month later, on the last day of the calendar year, we were outside Rome at the site of Ostia Antica, an ancient Roman sea port. But the area is seaside no longer. Centuries of silting have moved the coast and, lucky for us, preserved the town. I do not think that it is only historians who marvel at places so old and so well preserved. The streets were narrow; the painting of a café menu still covered a wall; the mosaics advertising port town necessities and amenities were still clear. </div>
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As an environmental historian, I often reflect on humans’ tiny position in the wider sweep of the universe and its past. But as a historian of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, I rarely reflect on the wider sweep of human history and the simultaneous proximity and distance of those parts of human culture that I consider so very modern, like cities. Visiting, as we did, on New Year’s Eve, made the experience all the more powerful. When did the residents of Ostia realize that their town was on the decline? A particularly decadent evening? A notable sacking by pirates? Did people only slow drift away or did if feel like the end of the world?</div>
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With only three months before our departure from Norway, every moment begins to have more meaning. “This might be my last time on this train…on this bus…looking at this view….” More than once I have wondered on this adventure, “How much better can life be? Can happiness have a limit?” Back when Sarah and I hopped from one rock to another at Verdens Ende, I thought I was sure to come back. “Maybe in the summer,” I mused, “with my family.” Now the time goes so fast. There is so much that we will never see. But it’s not the end of the world.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-86227103506525081252014-04-02T12:13:00.003-07:002014-04-02T12:13:32.752-07:00The view through the window<div class="MsoNormal">
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Historians of the American West and the environment have
often commented on how people experience the landscape and nature <a href="http://www.amazon.com/In-Search-Golden-West-Tourist/dp/0803228201/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1396464563&sr=8-1&keywords=In+search+of+the+golden+west">through windows</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The window of the train
car framed the landscape for tourists of the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early automobile
tourists shaped their journey not just through their choice of destination but
also through the direction in which they pointed their cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yosemite Park designers appear to have
designed automobile routes so that tourists could see the valley from the same
angles as did <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Print-Legend-Photography-American-Western/dp/0300103158/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1396464614&sr=8-1&keywords=Sandweiss+print+the+legend">early photographers of region</a>. Even those with a unique eye used
the windshield to focus their vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When she moved permanently to Abiquiu, New Mexico, the artist Georgia
O’Keeffe specially designed the passenger seat of her car as a rotating easel
so that she could paint from the driver’s seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps not surprisingly, New Mexico was also the place
where O’Keeffe had learned to drive.</div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We have been without a car
here, but bus windows, ferry windows, and train windows have framed many a
picture when the beauty of the Norwegian scenery tempted us to record it. Most of our pictures are
marred by rain drops and the blur of snow, but here are a few of the images we
have tried to capture or, perhaps, been encouraged to record, through the frame
of the window.</span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From the train between Oslo and Bergen in October:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZrGx54SSGjchBxzd5J9PE3qF-6IPvooupoW2q87loT-Y1f4-rYgWh-seDS5c31qKg9yhe4pmC6JcAuoHuIigjlv6XxXXTVpZCn4CEwHgQfqvUEkcIM5KrIlWd5mAPOS5xOPas6MZxUE/s1600/IMG_0312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZrGx54SSGjchBxzd5J9PE3qF-6IPvooupoW2q87loT-Y1f4-rYgWh-seDS5c31qKg9yhe4pmC6JcAuoHuIigjlv6XxXXTVpZCn4CEwHgQfqvUEkcIM5KrIlWd5mAPOS5xOPas6MZxUE/s1600/IMG_0312.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From the ferry between Oslo and Nesodden in December:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span>
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From the train between Tynset and Oslo in January:</div>
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From the train to Verdal, a small town north of Trondheim -- a landscape that I found lovely but that residents called "eerie." When I visited in late January, fires plagued the area, and I found no snow.<br />
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From a hotel room in Ålesund in February:</div>
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And, finally, from a ferry and a bus in the fjord country of western Norway between Flekke and Bergen in March:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-23758354765106138362014-04-02T11:46:00.000-07:002014-04-02T11:46:08.229-07:00Here's the kicker<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
Norway prepared for the winter Olympics, I had the opportunity to visit a
school in Tynset, in the heart of the country, an area that produces some of
the nation’s best skiers because it receives so much snow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Snow
fell almost continuously while I was there, and I was lucky enough also to
visit Røros, an old copper mining town and now a UNESCO world heritage site
famous for its hospitality to tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Røros reminded me of Madrid, New Mexico; Durango, CO; and Bisbee,
AZ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like former mining towns in
the United States, the community is tiny, chock full of shops, artist studios
and galleries, but also intensely aware of its mining past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The town delights in its tourist
industry, yet seems to feel the pressure to keep the charm coming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, this is a community where the
riches ran out once before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
this Santa Fe girl, the town seems to be doing a splendid job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was disappointed that I arrived after
the shops had closed and that I had to leave before catching dinner in one of the
lovely (and, like many others in Norway, expensive) restaurants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was delightful, though, to tour the
town with one of Tynset’s teachers at the blue hour, the peculiarly beautiful
dusk of Norwegian winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
while many scholars have written of the particular jeopardy of a community
living in thrall to tourism, I do hope that the visitors keep coming.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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What
I loved most about Røros and Tynset, however, was the spark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A teacher translated the term “spark”
as “the kicker.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Advertised as
kick sleds in the US, sparks carry students, teachers, the elderly, parents,
and their children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can be
equipped with seats for babies, baskets for carrying goods from the grocery
store, but many people just put a backpack on the front seat.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I’ve seen kick sleds before in Bodø and
Bardufoss, but Tynset prides itself on possessing the largest kicker in the
world – they recently built a new spark to beat a rival town in Finland for the
honor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so taken with the winter
weather and the spark that I began plotting on getting one for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My birthday was just a month off and it
seemed a perfect Norwegian souvenir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were even on sale when I priced them in Oslo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the kicker: </div>
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We had too little snow in Oslo to really justify the
purchase (thus the sale), and once I added the price of shipping, I found it
would be easier and more affordable to buy one in the United States where,
actually, quite a few companies manufacture them too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The irony that St. Louis had received more snow this winter
than Oslo did was not lost on me either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m waiting. I love the idea of sledding down to my local
café for my morning coffee on my spark -- even if next year’s winter brings the
snow back to Oslo.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-89747942741777269012014-01-16T11:13:00.000-08:002014-01-16T11:13:40.284-08:00Stavanger in 5 Easy Pieces
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Stavanger in 5 Easy Pieces</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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An early invitation from a school in Stavanger grew into
multiple visits to the city over the fall semester, and I have yet to write
about any of them. And so what
follows is 5 entries about the city of Stavanger and my time there. I have enjoyed the city even more than
I expected, and I hope that I have an opportunity to return.</div>
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<b>Piece 1: The Environment is the Third Teacher</b></div>
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I have written <a href="http://www.slu.edu/blogs/cttl/2012/12/12/environment-as-the-third-teacher/">elsewhere</a> about a
theory practiced in Reggio-Emilia pre-schools. Reggio-Emilia contends that the environment is the third
teacher, after parents and school teachers themselves. The theory posits that the environment
in which students learn also teaches them. Rigid desk arrangements and the absence of natural light
hampers curiosity and students’ capacities to make connections between the
classroom and the outside world.
Reggio classrooms favor skylights, lush arrangements of plants, and
light tables on which children arrange playful designs. Everywhere students look, they can see
the light of knowledge, often in the outside, natural world. Work over the past two years in <a href="http://www.slu.edu/blogs/cttl/page/4/">St.Louis University’s Learning Studio</a> has cemented my faith in the Reggio
theory. A flexible classroom space
with natural light seems to raise the spirits and the level of curiosity among
young adult students too.</div>
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It was delightful, then, to visit
the <a href="http://www.jaattaa.vgs.no/">Jåttå videregåndeskole</a> outside Stavanger, an entirely vocational school
just recently constructed. In
conversation with one of the teachers, I called the school a “temple to
industrial learning,” and she told me that students liken the school either to
an airport or a cathedral. The
cement walls accented with blonde wood and tastefully chosen sculptures did,
indeed, evoke Gardemon, Oslo’s airport. </div>
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So also did the decision to make visible the work of the building. One’s gaze can drift upward from the
security line at Gardemon to see the offices of airport administrators. At Jåttå, floor-to-ceiling windows
reveal well-dressed student waiters delivering Stavanger’s famous fish soup (also
prepared by students) to patrons at tables outfitted with crisp, white
tablecloths. In the front hall and
cafeteria, students comfortably lounge in protective and reflective clothes,
their regular garb as they learn to scaffold, weld, and, most significantly, in
this oil-rich town, drill.</div>
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The school is stunning, but as part
of a brand-new planned community dedicated largely to the oil industry, its
urban landscape is sterile. After
my first-day’s visit, I took the train back to Stavanger’s city center and then
walked to and through the city’s lovely park surrounding the lake Mosvannet. </div>
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The natural world became my classroom
as I observed ducks, swans, autumnal trees and their leaves and the setting
sun reflecting on the park’s central lake. The park primes visitors to reflect on culture, too. An art museum was hosting an exhibition
that, surprisingly, I had already seen in St. Louis! A tower of baby pacifiers maybe marked a spot of remembering
for locals. </div>
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Stone pillars,
reminiscent (to me, at least) of CCC national park markers in the U.S. circled
the lake along with my trail. </div>
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I
returned home refreshed, intrigued, and enlightened.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBltBAZIrwWqymQvDb7z_PxbMwKYix-XlXP4BUKzZ2y3G5yj2qJ6RT63reOwyYOf8qYwYEa5v1A7I4lfDfipU9jvwAijTRtvJ_DdunyJeuPAGbIuFywgffj08-TwQa9-UU7z9wWL8KvY/s1600/IMG_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBltBAZIrwWqymQvDb7z_PxbMwKYix-XlXP4BUKzZ2y3G5yj2qJ6RT63reOwyYOf8qYwYEa5v1A7I4lfDfipU9jvwAijTRtvJ_DdunyJeuPAGbIuFywgffj08-TwQa9-UU7z9wWL8KvY/s1600/IMG_0039.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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Stavanger Piece 2: Humble Beginnings</div>
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Is there any place as cool as the <a href="http://www.museumstavanger.no/museums/the-norwegian-canning-museum/">Norwegian Canning Museum</a>?!!? </div>
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A return to Stavanger
brought me to the marvelous Bergeland VGS and my effervescent host,
Nathalie. </div>
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“You must see Stavanger’s humble side!” She announced, and
we were off through Gamel Stavanger (old Stavanger) where centuries-old homes
nestle against the cobblestone street. </div>
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So intimate is the neighborhood that less conscientious tourists will
sometimes try to go inside as if visiting an amusement park. (“Just
as they do at Taos Pueblo!” I told students.) </div>
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Our destination was the Norwegian Canning Museum, which
chronicles the history of Stavanger’s sardine heyday in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries.
Sardines were Stavanger’s lifeline before oil, and, just as Nathalie
promised, the museum chronicles this more humble resource.</div>
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We started upstairs where numerous sardine can labels are on
display. To capture a large and
especially, American, market, labels showed everything from salty fishermen to
kings and queens. </div>
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An annual
competition challenges teenagers to design labels that would appeal to
Americans today. </div>
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The museum’s curator, Piers Crocker,<b> </b>was kind enough to narrate an early silent film (1905? –
Foolishly, I wasn’t taking notes.) advertising the sardines of one of
Stavanger’s canning factories. The film shows Stavanger’s
rich sardine resources and able fishermen hauling near-bursting nets into their
boats. Much of the work was done
by hand. The film’s big star,
however, was not the sardine, but the epiucure, who delicately consumed his
serving alongside a glass of champagne and then rolled his eyes with
pleasure. </div>
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By the end of the tour, I was in a similar state. A good part of environmental history
addresses the production and consumption of commodities, and here was an entire
museum dedicated to one of Stavanger’s most valuable resources: sardines. Fishermen had their hands in the sea,
and canning factory workers had their hands in the fish. After asking how much
time we had, Mr. Crocker gave us a personal tour through the museum, which is
outfitted to educate visitors in the canning process.
Everywhere humans were transforming nature, and nature was transforming
humans. I could not stop asking
questions from “How long did children work in the factories?” to “Where do you
get your fake sardines?” The answers: Until the 1950s in some cases and a
medical supply company. Thank
goodness I had the inexhaustible Nathalie with me and Mr. Crocker, who
described sardines as “his passion.”
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We learned how early canners strung the fish for smoking,
controlled the temperature among the different ovens, trimmed the heads, packed
the fish with oil, and sealed the cans.
You can test your own time and skills with almost every stage of the
process, and the museum continues to use the ovens once a month to offer visitors
a taste of the process. </div>
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The entire production reminded me of the textile factories
of late nineteenth and early twentieth-century New York City, and the museum
made me think of New York City’s <a href="http://www.tenement.org/">Tenement Museum</a>. A similar relationship between city, country, labor, safety,
resource, and product played out. Women
came from the villages of Norway’s western mountains to work in the canning
factories, often living several to a house in what was the poorest and most
crime-ridden section of the city.
Speed was of the essence and so nicked or numb fingers were a low
priority. An early job for children was snipping the heads from the sardines
after they were strung. Smoking the
fish was a delicate process that required stamina and skill. It was men’s work, and smokers were
rewarded during the region’s years of alcohol prohibition with a daily ration
of beer. Men, too, manned the
machines that sealed the cans. Today,
most canning has moved to Poland, where workers demand less
compensation than in Norway, but the industry persisted long enough in
Stavanger that elderly visitors to the museum will sometimes recount their
time in the factories. “I hold
the record on that machine,” a man once said to our guide. “Number of cans?”
“Number of fingers kept,” he said, holding up his hands.</div>
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Sardines may have been the humble commodity of
industrializing western Norway, but aficionados of the fish treat it like fine
wine. Once a year, Stavanger’s
residents line up to taste some of the aged sardines owned by the museum. Fortuitously, a Stavanger resident set
up a large supply of canned sardines during the Cuban Missile Crisis. When she passed away, her son donated
her stores. Our guide said that you can taste the difference.</div>
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“Why don’t my students ask so many questions when I bring
them here?” mused Nathalie half-way through our tour. “You have to learn how to be curious,” I conjectured,
“They’re still learning.”
Sometimes the sardines I have now do taste different. I’m still learning too.</div>
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<b>Piece Three: The
Culture of Climate Change</b></div>
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“Next time you can see the other side of Stavanger,”
Nathalie told me. “You
can smell the money,” said a teacher about Stavanger’s streets during one of my
visits. “I just liked the bag,”
one teacher told me, “So I went in to ask how much it was.” Her eyes grow wide. “14,000 kroner! Now
I know not to go in.” On the train
I see beautiful girls heading to school wearing plush, Canada goose down
coats. They (The girls and the
coats) are obviously fashionable.
I ask a teacher about the craze. “7,000 kroner!" She tells me, shaking her head. (About $1,000 – although
they retail for around <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/09/fashion/Cold-Winter-Fashion-Trends.html?_r=0">$750 in New York City</a>) “My niece wanted one and said it would last forever. ‘But the craze won’t!’ My brother told her.” A single roving visit over the same
weekend as an oil industry exposition made me the most expensive rover of the
program for the fall semester. </div>
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Oil is money, and there’s a lot of both in Stavanger. I was curious, then, to see what the <a href="http://www.norskolje.museum.no/index.asp?iLangId=1">Norwegian Petroleum Museum</a> had to say about the city’s prosperity and its
origins. I was especially
eager to see how Norway’s much vaunted enthusiasm for the natural world would
square with the deleterious effects of its much vaunted industry. </div>
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The museum itself is shaped like an oil
tanker. Three exhibit halls
designed like miniature oil platforms actually sit over the water. This seemed like it would be an
unequivocal endorsement of the source of Norway’s wealth. It was shocking, then, to
walk through the entry turnstile and immediately see wall text that proclaimed:
“Climate change is the world’s most pressing problem.” It is hard to imagine the same
sign in a museum in the United States, especially one dedicated, as Stavanger’s
is, to a region’s “industrial heritage.”</div>
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A
subsequent exhibit allowed visitors to answer questions about Norway’s oil
wealth. All of the money, since
its discovery, has been invested in a trust for the entire nation. Norwegians live on the investment of
that money. And they use very
little of the actual oil – snowy winters and a mountainous terrain make
hydroelectric power the ideal source of energy. If you successfully answer the questions in the exhibit, you
are rewarded with the opportunity to make a video of yourself prescribing how
Norway should handle oil drilling and exploration in the future. Videos of younger quiz wizzes seemed to
favor less drilling, but older experts were inclined to draw attention to how
much benefit the wealth from oil has brought the nation. (National politics seems to mirror the
results of the video – Norway has only one green candidate in its parliament
despite a national culture quite devoted to the natural world.) </div>
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Most of the exhibitions show the
machines and industrial ingenuity that created Norway’s oil industry. Exhibits take pains to describe the
geological conditions that produced oil.
A “time machine” transports viewers billions of years into the
past. </div>
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And numerous artifacts
celebrate the technological triumphs of off-shore drilling and especially the
successful capping of a blow-out: the Bravo platform blow-out of 1977, the
worst ever in the North Sea. The
exhibit credits the Americans who helped to cap the blow-out, but does not
mention the ecological costs. I
could imagine children delightedly trying on the undersea diving helmets for
platform workers, and the supplies required for an oil platform – cities unto
themselves -- was astonishing.</div>
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I slowed in a final exhibition
dedicated specifically to the issue of climate change. As I entered, I saw a sculpture of the
Earth with a running tally of the planet’s human population at its center. I heard a pair of gasping lungs. </div>
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A near-by platform held a dictionary
with just one word defined: dilemma.
One room in the exhibition tackles the question of alternative energies
such as solar and wind. Expensive
and with their own ecological costs are the main conclusions of the wall
text. Another room addresses
inequality around the world. How
to provide access to the fuel that allowed industrialized countries their
prosperity without driving global temperatures too high? </div>
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A final room seeks to provide an
answer. I was excited to find
it. Here would be a solution, I
conjectured, one that we have not discussed in the U.S., where too much
conversation is still mired in the question of whether the climate is changing
at all. </div>
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Lower your consumption; travel by
foot and bicycle and public transportation; recycle; give used items to resale shops; and (The last piece
of advice caused some chagrin in this American visiting Norway) limit your
international travel. Norwegians
are not hampered by the absurd question of whether the climate is
changing. It is, and they know
it. But here was all the same
advice I encounter and try to follow in the U.S. </div>
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There are no easy answers. The last stop of the exhibition is two doorways,
covered by black, plastic curtains.
Visitors choose “yes” if they believe that the world’s future is
optimistic. “No” if they do not. I stood for a long time in front of the
curtains. A dilemma, indeed. Do I show a sunny American optimism in the
face of the facts? Do I express
hope in humanity’s capacity to rise to a challenge? Do I subtly critique the shape of the exhibition itself,
which ultimately concludes that oil consumption -- just not too much -- is the
answer? I finally chose No. Both doors open on the same hall. A computer counts visitors’
choices. I was in the minority.</div>
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<b>Piece 4: The Power of Place</b></div>
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I have been known to ask: “Is there any place as cool as the
Norwegian Canning Museum?!!?” It
turns out, yes, yes there is, and it’s the <a href="http://www.rogalandkunstsenter.no/">Rogaland Kunstsenter</a>. </div>
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Established in 1978, the center is artist-run,
serves artists in the community, and provides the community a steady diet of
cutting-edge art.</div>
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I was lucky enough to have an invitation to the center from
its director, Geir Haraldseth, a friend of the younger brother of one of my
United World College classmates and a UWC-Atlantic graduate himself (Yay, <a href="http://www.uwc.org/">UWC</a>!)</div>
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Since his UWC days, Geir has been collecting art and art
history books, and his collection forms the core of an art library that sits at
the top of the center. The space
is stunning, and I can imagine many a pleasant afternoon browsing the stacks in
search of inspiration or maybe the articulation of an inspiration already
received.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The center is a part of a nationwide network of similar
spaces. In addition to the
library, it also houses artists in residence, sponsors artists to visit other
countries, and provides exhibitions for Stavanger on everything from how we use
our clothing to Estonian art.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what won my heart at Rogaland Kunstsenter was a volume
put together by the center’s head of professional development, Torunn Elisabeth
Larsen titled <i>Kunst By Befolkning</i>. The book is a work of art
about the center itself and the role it has played in the city for the past ten years. The book asks: What is the relationship between an urban environment and its art? As Stavanger grows more prosperous, Torunn explained to me, some in the city want to see a homogenous and
prosperous city center grow, even at the expense of some of Stavanger’s less
prosperous, or just different, residents.
This is a dilemma, of course, that all gentrifying areas face. I was reminded of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Power-Place-Landscapes-History/dp/0262581523">Dolores Hayden’s <i>The Power of Place</i></a> as well as <a href="http://preservationresearch.com/blog/">MichaelAllen’s work</a> at the Preservation Research Office in St. Louis and in his blog, Ecology of Absence. Both address how cities live and
grow and the role of public art. In <i>Kunst By Befolkning</i>, it
was wonderful to see artists tackle head-on the role of art and the artist in
the course of an urban transformation. Torunn made a goal of the publication to show how well the center
balances differences of all kinds and to stress that supporting the arts and an
art center need not displace a community’s members.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
hope (and Geir’s) is that young people and schools in the area will connect
with the art center too. I can
seem them gazing out the windows of the library, making prints in the graphics
center, browsing the exhibition halls, learning and knowing their place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Piece 5: No Such Thing As Bad Weather</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With
all the time spent indoors in Stavanger, I might have forgotten what it’s like
there outdoors. But Norway does
not allow you to forget. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My last visit of the year coincided with a major storm. Having grown up inland, every moment I
spend in proximity to the sea is exciting and kind of frightening. As the winds grew and teachers
cancelled their appointments with me so that they could bail out their
basements, I realized that it wasn’t just the land-lubber who was impressed
with nature’s fury. The whole city
was battening down the hatches (So to speak, I only kind of know what that
means.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
wind almost lifted me as I crossed the street. My face was covered in water as I arrived at one
destination. All day people told
me that my flight would be cancelled.
When I arrived at the airport, hundreds of people were lined up to
re-schedule. Only two other people
headed through security with me. We entertained ourselves speeding our luggage
bins down the ramp. “Do you think
our flights will leave?” I asked one.
“No!” He replied, laughing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
general atmosphere of merriment followed us past security where hundreds of
people waited. A cheerful trompe
l’oeil and an array of sofas and rugs were arranged next to the
“Christmas Gate.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijl908EKLiMbJBTbrMx04Ul_DGSklE-oqqmLivDxpuxKYzyXTcVcXVN9Kid3pZdtFTSgXEQNlPKw_RtBSayQOY81LcuGH-Rj8RISeJu9MT-Y3ePCS4Ut1naNiGJ8c0DBEjFXdX2orGrl4/s1600/IMG_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijl908EKLiMbJBTbrMx04Ul_DGSklE-oqqmLivDxpuxKYzyXTcVcXVN9Kid3pZdtFTSgXEQNlPKw_RtBSayQOY81LcuGH-Rj8RISeJu9MT-Y3ePCS4Ut1naNiGJ8c0DBEjFXdX2orGrl4/s1600/IMG_0225.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As one flight
after another was cancelled, a surprisingly chipper SAS employee rescheduled us
for later departures. Dozens of
people rushed this way and that to collect food vouchers and line up in front
of new gates. When my flight was
finally announced, an airport employee came in shedding water and snow from his
boots and parka. He shouted
something in Norwegian. “What did
he say?” I asked a neighbor. “He
said that we’re going to form a nice, orderly line.” Everyone laughed.
Everyone ignored him. I
made it home to Oslo. It was not
raining. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-33480986820174053932013-12-01T12:46:00.000-08:002013-12-01T12:55:27.935-08:00Reading the Landscape: Part 2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few weeks ago
I had the good fortune to lecture to a large group of students and then rotate
among smaller sections of students as they responded to questions about the
material from their teacher. This
has become my favorite way of roving as it gives me an opportunity to speak to
many students but also to speak with students individually about what they took
from what I shared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> This
particular afternoon found me chatting with a young lady who began our
conversation earnestly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“The noble
savage myth,” she said, “I thought that’s what Native Americans were really
like.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“That’s ok,” I
said, “That’s what a lot of people think.
That’s why it’s a stereotype.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">(With a lot more time and regular meetings with students, I would be tempted to further the conversation with <a href="http://vimeo.com/1776390">this fascinating video</a> of White Mountain Apache skateboarders, part of a collaborative exhibition by the Phoenix Heard Museum and the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian in 2007-2008. But there's no crueler taskmaster than the clock in the classroom. I did not digress.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGifSNksP0d163Qks1OUyLWZxhIFPxEAHyr-6juR5ttjTmkuOJS7NuAn24QUAbILArCZVOy3Q9pLACgeYhHzx6z3WClXl89Z0V2gLyCRdIJVhIa5j91Q2qaCBmmRAOdBP4HKz82T77aw/s1600/4+Wheel+Warpony+skaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGifSNksP0d163Qks1OUyLWZxhIFPxEAHyr-6juR5ttjTmkuOJS7NuAn24QUAbILArCZVOy3Q9pLACgeYhHzx6z3WClXl89Z0V2gLyCRdIJVhIa5j91Q2qaCBmmRAOdBP4HKz82T77aw/s1600/4+Wheel+Warpony+skaters.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But if Native
Americans are not one with nature,” she said, “what are their spiritual
beliefs?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well nature <b>is</b>
important in a lot of Native American religions,” I said, “And a lot of native
people practice their traditional religions, but some see the references to
nature in their cosmology as metaphors.
Some practice their religion and Christianity at the same time, and they
don’t see any conflict between the two.
Anthropologists have a fancy word for it: They all it syncretism.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Syncre…” She
stumbles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Syncretism,” I say and write the word down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh!” She
says. “Two things coming
together.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes!” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now she is
comfortable, and I am excited. This is a good student!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But what about origin stories?” She asks. “How do they explain the world?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well, like I
said, all native people are different and have different beliefs, but there are
origin myths.” I continue with
stories about Raven and the Salmon People drawn from my recent reading of
Lissa Wadewitz’s <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Borders-Kathleen-Western-History-Biography-ebook/dp/B009DOF9PA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385929009&sr=8-1&keywords=the+nature+of+borders">The Nature of Borders</a></i>. I mention the Navajo figure, Spider
Woman. I describe the place of
emergence in Pueblo cosmology, the sipapu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Are these
stories written down?” She asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,” I say,
“When Europeans first met Native Americans, stories like these were part of
oral tradition. But now many are
written down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So I could read
them?” She asks and her eyes glance toward the window in the direction, I
think, of the University of Oslo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Sure!” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Do they have a
central text?” She asks, “Like the Bible or the Koran?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Well,” I
say. (I make a mental note to begin
a reply with another word.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Sometimes
certain places have moral lessons or meanings attached to them.” I am thinking of Keith Basso’s <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wisdom-Sits-Places-Landscape-Language-ebook/dp/B007WV9WV8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385929085&sr=8-1&keywords=wisdom+sits+in+places">Wisdom Sits in Places</a>.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Young people
learn stories about a mountain and then, whenever they see that mountain, they
remember that they should respect their elders. Or a particular cluster of trees might remind you to share
or a farming plot could remind you to be grateful for what you have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her eyes dart
back to the window. I am less sure
this time around that her glance means she is desperate to get to the library
and learn more. Am I losing my curious and intelligent audience of one? Does she think I have forgotten her
question?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“And so,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">No, my timing is
right. Her glance is back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It is as if the
land is a text.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her brown eyes
grow wide and round.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Wow.” She says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
“I know.” I say.</span><!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcExoyYBoK6fiiLlJNja06SsroghW6zR7ygMpsyJ74JbiPlFWbHP9vmaW-Ac68CvgVEYVGozvB6orJEt8J33Y_tpGlFVXk0Fn-kapLDJv3RaE_0ItEXNcDMugi4Mw8OHAkV3ZIw-DZKw/s1600/BlackRiver01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcExoyYBoK6fiiLlJNja06SsroghW6zR7ygMpsyJ74JbiPlFWbHP9vmaW-Ac68CvgVEYVGozvB6orJEt8J33Y_tpGlFVXk0Fn-kapLDJv3RaE_0ItEXNcDMugi4Mw8OHAkV3ZIw-DZKw/s1600/BlackRiver01.jpg" height="215" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: xx-small;">The Black River, which forms the border between the White Mountain Apache Reservation and the San Carlos Apache Reservation. Photo by US Bureau of Reclamation</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-14758511915065408362013-10-30T14:51:00.001-07:002013-10-30T14:51:32.978-07:00she flâneries<!--[if !mso]>
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<br />
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A few weeks ago Roving took me to one of the most beautiful
cities in Norway: Ålesund on the western coast. Ålesund is beautiful for two reasons. 1) It is on the
western coast of Norway. 2) The city burned down in January 1904 and Kaiser
Wilhelm, who had vacationed in the area, paid to rebuild the town center in Art
Nouveau style. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I traveled to Ålesund from Bergen, another of Norway’s
lovely cities. Even though every
cultural guide warns against drawing parallels between one’s home culture and
the place one is visiting, I couldn’t help but think that Ålesund is a little
like Taos to Bergen’s Santa Fe.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s Bergen:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcw6c-9Tb0tAoPNcE3i8Z2DgDUr9im8pe-z0o1nPdk2NjB_xJdir4yDGUSVCYOtJk3HBMn0NBspNOdirL6_EJwHEWdtO0omJydQOzJgp5Xl_A_imYgZ6DSKFhIZC-YqpTaRZU5yyQmGRQ/s1600/Bergen+city+view+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcw6c-9Tb0tAoPNcE3i8Z2DgDUr9im8pe-z0o1nPdk2NjB_xJdir4yDGUSVCYOtJk3HBMn0NBspNOdirL6_EJwHEWdtO0omJydQOzJgp5Xl_A_imYgZ6DSKFhIZC-YqpTaRZU5yyQmGRQ/s1600/Bergen+city+view+1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4795520614410892885" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<br />
Here’s Ålesund:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Wc7PzNtfH9Sz65aw_RtZrBC5hKbZjzYUp3o4kC4jVn5OGKhrz_bdjFM_9nXWqUeBBx1wSAOKp6BWxirTo0FSxTHM7Au6_C6dTzLherSDuWnssyv53eemdcegp-JUKChGy4fjeGyMtDM/s1600/Aalesund+city+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Wc7PzNtfH9Sz65aw_RtZrBC5hKbZjzYUp3o4kC4jVn5OGKhrz_bdjFM_9nXWqUeBBx1wSAOKp6BWxirTo0FSxTHM7Au6_C6dTzLherSDuWnssyv53eemdcegp-JUKChGy4fjeGyMtDM/s1600/Aalesund+city+view.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Ålesund is smaller, possibly more
beautiful still than Bergen, and remarkably consistent in its commitment to Art
Nouveau style.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHzp1zQc8UpL_M9NjK6WrKcJYAYoY_E-prTBQNf3829GB1ytDc8dXQx_vUSFjJkxvYxD2VlqyI2z5DFbAZMRPTdbYugR2-3SwlqVDU4-VI6xDluqI5MQ4EmXmVNHz05u8F5dLKOgQILU/s1600/Aalesund+manhole+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHzp1zQc8UpL_M9NjK6WrKcJYAYoY_E-prTBQNf3829GB1ytDc8dXQx_vUSFjJkxvYxD2VlqyI2z5DFbAZMRPTdbYugR2-3SwlqVDU4-VI6xDluqI5MQ4EmXmVNHz05u8F5dLKOgQILU/s1600/Aalesund+manhole+cover.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I was smitten by the local museum
dedicated to Art Nouveau, and I couldn’t stop taking pictures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the owl motif on the banister: <!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_i1030"
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs55sQcYLIP8mSMnx2ebovEBKiNnSZ37h_gKCywT-vE8kLpf02B_SAGFedJCylR4d4FAwg4Z0NZKH_X2wwMjtZACnaO9Kba0-8L86uz-MzSPtkPwHMcvnFiySmYpjTmlo0XHi3JCPPeUA/s1600/Aalesund+owl+on+stair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs55sQcYLIP8mSMnx2ebovEBKiNnSZ37h_gKCywT-vE8kLpf02B_SAGFedJCylR4d4FAwg4Z0NZKH_X2wwMjtZACnaO9Kba0-8L86uz-MzSPtkPwHMcvnFiySmYpjTmlo0XHi3JCPPeUA/s1600/Aalesund+owl+on+stair.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the modest desk that reminded me of my own Arts and
Crafts Movement desk back in St. Louis: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3lWBKGOZ2V210L_Xjr-PtetuQGclswc0j6OQ2uG4zGMpALoUHglpc96reCLzRAWS5fBI1JgfkltIuBzpwNUPE4IEglqY25Yv_OE8j5YS8VvYxfpEdpBms7QzfnKbEAZRpZcRCnhbvMA/s1600/Aalesund+desk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy3lWBKGOZ2V210L_Xjr-PtetuQGclswc0j6OQ2uG4zGMpALoUHglpc96reCLzRAWS5fBI1JgfkltIuBzpwNUPE4IEglqY25Yv_OE8j5YS8VvYxfpEdpBms7QzfnKbEAZRpZcRCnhbvMA/s1600/Aalesund+desk.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
Everywhere was evidence of the
early twentieth century effort to capture the symmetry of nature in art.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhJMlzf95dGsjBjNzGyjj5hxRDNWApd6AVxIDCtGSm942Oyo3xENkgBx9WKIzZPqipAo8WcYXVsR-xrRFLL2nxc7xAIbuscOpyuRa1CKl1WfA1DSRYnQ8x5DzKQC0VnLpLDhecaD5GyE/s1600/Aalesund+vgs+skeptical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhJMlzf95dGsjBjNzGyjj5hxRDNWApd6AVxIDCtGSm942Oyo3xENkgBx9WKIzZPqipAo8WcYXVsR-xrRFLL2nxc7xAIbuscOpyuRa1CKl1WfA1DSRYnQ8x5DzKQC0VnLpLDhecaD5GyE/s1600/Aalesund+vgs+skeptical.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The story of Ålesund’s fire is
perhaps not that different from other cities of the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries. San
Francisco, of course, springs to the mind of this western historian. Nonetheless, there was something
especially poignant about the museum’s account of everyday people of Ålesund
suddenly homeless and hungry in the middle of winter in Norway. The museum includes a small rotating
exhibition, and I was fortunate to catch the photographs of Margrethe Svendsen,
who documented the city in the late 1890s and Petrine Wiik, who photographed
Ålesund in the years following the fire.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their work reminded me of the ways in which women see other
women in cities. Where women’s
work and leisure might have been invisible to other visitors, Svendsen and Wiik
saw women on bicycles, swapping stories on a stoop, and tending shop. I was entranced by a stereographic card of little girls sharing a tea party:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXaeh8KqDF2Rt1ihHjrObTm2DEXgoee2A40XCrjTSgCz0BjCB7Z7UNORCRNDHDUEzqabJZwrFN6k9BcW1DA7T3miyZ-p8fT0omeIgn8ysADH2LQq6y1whUUpByqwrPADzogRYwOEpzAY/s1600/Aalesund+stereoscope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXaeh8KqDF2Rt1ihHjrObTm2DEXgoee2A40XCrjTSgCz0BjCB7Z7UNORCRNDHDUEzqabJZwrFN6k9BcW1DA7T3miyZ-p8fT0omeIgn8ysADH2LQq6y1whUUpByqwrPADzogRYwOEpzAY/s1600/Aalesund+stereoscope.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Women who tour
cities, observe and absorb are not often who we imagine when we imagine the
urban rover. It was men, after
all, who roamed <a href="http://www.amazon.com/York-Gas-Light-Other-Urban-Sketches/dp/0520067223/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1383166498&sr=8-1&keywords=New+York+by+gas+light">New
York by gas light</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
But it was women who were on my mind. All three of Norway’s Roving Scholars
are women this year, and just the day before my leisure in Ålesund, I had
visited with teachers from Cypress at Ålesund Videregåndeskole. One mentioned that I had the perfect
name for my work this year. “You
know the flâneur?” said my Cypriot interlocutor. “Yes, I do!” I said, realization slowly dawning. My husband, an ardent Francophile, has
long appreciated the resonance between my name and that of the
nineteenth-century Parisian urban wanderer. “Well, you have the perfect name,” she said with
confidence. “Because that is what
the flâneur
does. He flâneries! And that is what you will do here in
Norway as you visit city to city.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
My morning at the museum complete, I walked through Ålesund and up into the hill above the city. Rain first threatened and then fell.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwTtyI8iAJUkIuUWFHRYeFeVbhFo2VOFQPZWsz_cQGWLsFPYIlHucvJBlV1yncfvAn3PQl0Ni6XKxxrKnwyR8W2RVw0JJDPqMECOUwY6PWlZt9PMDE1_VpfeNxzhdInRKyhhpHYZsxAg/s1600/Aalesund+Haug+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguwTtyI8iAJUkIuUWFHRYeFeVbhFo2VOFQPZWsz_cQGWLsFPYIlHucvJBlV1yncfvAn3PQl0Ni6XKxxrKnwyR8W2RVw0JJDPqMECOUwY6PWlZt9PMDE1_VpfeNxzhdInRKyhhpHYZsxAg/s1600/Aalesund+Haug+view.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUcucjnQxYfGMbLqDCEpW_FFeflbhnFOQIIJBwGyoxPzn8Z9wJcuTS-Q36hLAishLfenJlG5TuW-yc5Af5OoeI-ZUDJsi9efEKfFlEY9IlY4X1-RquEfMsRq9GpyMz-viaVqWF3uwf9Y/s1600/Aalesund+tower+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUcucjnQxYfGMbLqDCEpW_FFeflbhnFOQIIJBwGyoxPzn8Z9wJcuTS-Q36hLAishLfenJlG5TuW-yc5Af5OoeI-ZUDJsi9efEKfFlEY9IlY4X1-RquEfMsRq9GpyMz-viaVqWF3uwf9Y/s1600/Aalesund+tower+view.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The pictures, I am afraid, do not quite do the hike
justice. I had left my camera at
home in Oslo, and I took all the photos here with my phone. But that’s all right. I’ll be back. That’s how I flânerie.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-7931395862624098492013-10-09T09:41:00.000-07:002013-10-09T09:41:13.935-07:00Water Buffalo Bill<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In honor of this week’s Western
History Association meeting in Tucson, Arizona, I am sharing what I consider to
be my greatest find thus far in Norway: a Tarzan comic book featuring Wild West
show performer Buffalo Bill…in Norwegian! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5d0NgRRUe9oSp9gjXv5acsxwHDmOEXtzeHu1nBiERXLyGGdaER6QrNFCIGcrI7BX3GkcSpmXLhX4MoQxxJloYmdB57UFWNuHzcCWYhITQ_0py83pIM6Lqjxokk265fAEzJFJYpUVgmI/s1600/2013-10-09+02.19.46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5d0NgRRUe9oSp9gjXv5acsxwHDmOEXtzeHu1nBiERXLyGGdaER6QrNFCIGcrI7BX3GkcSpmXLhX4MoQxxJloYmdB57UFWNuHzcCWYhITQ_0py83pIM6Lqjxokk265fAEzJFJYpUVgmI/s1600/2013-10-09+02.19.46.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
What was Buffalo Bill doing in the
jungles of Africa hanging with the Apenes Konge?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, since I don’t speak Norwegian, at first it appeared to
me that he had arrived to wrestle a triceratops and battle a tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, no – turns out the tank is in a
separate story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4toOfE68Q_BwXDrGtO7nku9u1rA3vBnWamAvbk2NTXk2ncAfaCa-38gsHEQ82sxZwiIN8BtOYbe8rpzQ5Gc6fR-dwipUqavgZh8_JvB6xu3KH44qXWF1DHJufB9fIZCDBskuCa70y_ng/s1600/2013-10-09+02.19.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4toOfE68Q_BwXDrGtO7nku9u1rA3vBnWamAvbk2NTXk2ncAfaCa-38gsHEQ82sxZwiIN8BtOYbe8rpzQ5Gc6fR-dwipUqavgZh8_JvB6xu3KH44qXWF1DHJufB9fIZCDBskuCa70y_ng/s1600/2013-10-09+02.19.24.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I confess that I wasn’t entirely
surprised to see Buffalo Bill sharing the page with another iconic figure of
nineteenth-century primitivism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
the historian Louis Warren well explains, Buffalo Bill (William Cody) was both a
malleable cultural symbol and a man who knew his own symbolic power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even served as inspiration for parts
of Bram Stoker’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dracula.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Who’s to say Cody didn’t have
something to do with Tarzan too?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In presentations to high school
students here in Norway, Tarzan has even come up and allowed me to mention my fabulous flea market find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a
presentation on Native Americans, I describe the stereotypes of the “savage
savage” and the “noble savage” and how such stereotypes affect contemporary
native people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
English is a part of the core
curriculum in Norway, and students are quite proficient in the language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The term “savage,” however is new to
most of them, and I have struggled to describe it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teachers are reluctant to allow Norwegian in their English
classrooms, so I have cast about for synonyms in English with which teenagers
might be familiar: “Um…primitive….simple….” I pause and gesture to the phrases
on the screen while I stall for time. “It can be both an adjective and a noun….and…um…It
means uncivilized.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one class,
somewhat to the teacher’s consternation, the students began to chatter in
Norwegian. “Villmann?” They asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Yes!” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We moved on,
but one student frowned and squirmed for the remainder of our time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, at the end, she asked, “Villmann?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Tarzan?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes!” I said again, thrilled to babble on about my new
comic book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought the student
had great historical insight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed,
as my colleague Rachel St. John pointed out when I mentioned the comic to
her: “How very nineteenth century!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Except that the comic book is from
1977.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjIAp0tZrnCchdPkOccKFq2xRyWKeOoe6RWkvMCOkFMmwVrwsFOCeFdRlONDDXhxI9OyA-KKyB2mxl43NDUA-H4VCg0wzpfRtVnUEfCK6tmYqL0UecEGcLjea-niocLLeb7xYOvbqV7lc/s1600/2013-10-09+02.18.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjIAp0tZrnCchdPkOccKFq2xRyWKeOoe6RWkvMCOkFMmwVrwsFOCeFdRlONDDXhxI9OyA-KKyB2mxl43NDUA-H4VCg0wzpfRtVnUEfCK6tmYqL0UecEGcLjea-niocLLeb7xYOvbqV7lc/s1600/2013-10-09+02.18.07.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
How can this be? Well, let’s
contextualize, shall we?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little B+ research (that’s Googling for those of you who have
just joined the blog) revealed that there was a major oil blowout in the North
Sea in 1977.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, it was the
worst in Norwegian history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
initially elated to discover this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not, you know, because I’m happy about oil spills, but because that
would explain the environmental anxiety of the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tarzan frets over the water buffalo,
worried that it will be taken to the United States for Buffalo Bill’s
show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, when the triceratops
shows up, Tarzan is more successful than Buffalo Bill in subduing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he is utterly scornful when Buffalo
Bill starts dropping the names of his fellow celebrities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KMXpe7e4gwMdC-h2cnJWEaWRPBtEdez9zsOKm9UYUrNRSjkB6MXYnrdOOrDm2HDRIPKA8IED07gzuh5eKXeX_scC-vso-A5ZhECGSb9sqPYzp2KFKG-_NOHCZV5SPVVy5JKS063wICY/s1600/Tarzan+name+dropping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KMXpe7e4gwMdC-h2cnJWEaWRPBtEdez9zsOKm9UYUrNRSjkB6MXYnrdOOrDm2HDRIPKA8IED07gzuh5eKXeX_scC-vso-A5ZhECGSb9sqPYzp2KFKG-_NOHCZV5SPVVy5JKS063wICY/s1600/Tarzan+name+dropping.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No doubt there was a fair amount of
anxiety about humans’ mastery of nature following the 1977 blowout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such wrangling over who gets top billing
as Chief Wrangler makes sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does nature require a gentle touch or a firm hand? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this was great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Except that the blowout occurred in April of 1977, and the comic book
must be from late February or March, thus its injunction to “Kjøp nytt Tarzan
19. Mars!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what was going on in 1977 before April?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some more B+ research revealed that
concern over African wildlife hunting – particularly elephant hunting for ivory
– was acute in 1977.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kenya banned
the hunting of all wildlife that year, and 1977 remains the cutoff for import
of wild ivory to the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My guess is that the triceratops and the water buffalo were stand-ins
for elephants. (But I’d have to do A-level research to be sure.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could the beauty of primitive Africa have arrived on U.S.
shores?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not if Tarzan had anything
to do with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the close of the
issue, Buffalo Bill offers Tarzan a job as an animal trainer and a role as the “Savage
of Borneo.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLMnOB8Ig0P38g50_2ABuYTFrcRV3Ri4mJefzHldBux0paa2xvF2oetz35Xvqcz04Ir1S7YMC16XmhiEck12T_KcgQl0ZePukLW0XcCnS7tKBNNkMtvc3cI2lPiPXFgT2D-YCeNq9K6E/s1600/Buffalo+Bill%2527s+offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLMnOB8Ig0P38g50_2ABuYTFrcRV3Ri4mJefzHldBux0paa2xvF2oetz35Xvqcz04Ir1S7YMC16XmhiEck12T_KcgQl0ZePukLW0XcCnS7tKBNNkMtvc3cI2lPiPXFgT2D-YCeNq9K6E/s1600/Buffalo+Bill%2527s+offer.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tarzan gives him a scornful
look before taking the triceratops back to its homeland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final frame, Buffalo Bill
announces that he’ll never understand foreigners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would appear that 1977 Tarzan had a few more economic
options than did 1877 Native American performers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOvomHz72JhDz5NZ9TuO7sUQSyMGmRomWhyphenhyphenQYEV8IcOeoLvJteyM-Ngttx0khiRG0SXJs95v0WNGOLnRQSJZxN7ZHzCE9IEB7hFe0NO-1UF0Co5gVvARz1bIinvc9vChmnj3AsQxoiBo/s1600/Tarzan+final+panel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOvomHz72JhDz5NZ9TuO7sUQSyMGmRomWhyphenhyphenQYEV8IcOeoLvJteyM-Ngttx0khiRG0SXJs95v0WNGOLnRQSJZxN7ZHzCE9IEB7hFe0NO-1UF0Co5gVvARz1bIinvc9vChmnj3AsQxoiBo/s1600/Tarzan+final+panel.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Native Americans, of course, aren’t foreigners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students here still watch the Simpsons
and are delighted to review the episode “Much Apu about Nothing,” in which an
Indian American becomes a citizen like his friend, Homer, a self-proclaimed “native
American” whose daughter reminds him not to forget the first American
Indians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless of their
English ability, most students here seem to catch on that the plot of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dances with Wolves</i> is familiar…they’ve
seen this story before…of course…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avatar</i>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But whether they’re in the pages of a comic book or on the
rodeo stage or in outer space, we ask a lot of our villmenn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must achieve, nay, embody an
understanding of nature that their observers do not have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I teach the meaning of the word, but
ultimately my students here know better before they walk into my class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether noble or brutal, there’s no
such thing as a savage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghRrQ00GHvi1tvK47Z9UIL5qbnw8tlUpiqX25yNpbJHCDEwuo_3Gntw7g1kQJ9Rasy92R0aaofFXYvYjW9T4hoBsx8quDL85sPwPBoZDDYtlETbEPUf0aMTgRhfshi_mjDORi8qbhnZY/s1600/Tarzan+declines+job.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghRrQ00GHvi1tvK47Z9UIL5qbnw8tlUpiqX25yNpbJHCDEwuo_3Gntw7g1kQJ9Rasy92R0aaofFXYvYjW9T4hoBsx8quDL85sPwPBoZDDYtlETbEPUf0aMTgRhfshi_mjDORi8qbhnZY/s1600/Tarzan+declines+job.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-3115009146758924352013-10-08T13:40:00.002-07:002013-10-08T13:40:28.861-07:00Nature Bingo<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently my son asked that I discuss him less online.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course.” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I learned he had played Nature Bingo at a sculpture
fair for children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“May I talk about Nature Bingo on my blog?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Only if you don’t mention me,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But I wasn’t even there,” I said. “How can I describe it
without mentioning you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You could say this,” he said. “Recently, my family learned
how to play Nature Bingo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
learned at a sculpture fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
find things outside like rocks and pine cones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had everything we needed except a bird song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then a crow cawed and so we won.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you talking about Nature Bingo?” asked my husband.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” I said, “But I am not supposed to mention anyone by
name.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I be Commander Cool?” asked my husband.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course,” I said. “How did you know to look for a bird
song and not just a bird?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The squares were marked with an eye, a hand, and an ear,”
said Commander Cool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cool!” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Commander</b> Cool,”
said my son.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that is how you play Nature Bingo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family came home at sunset and took this lovely picture.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtYGylsW8Z8-TeelakFAxMaZh1wblU-EZybrjCf_HnMNMekbQLjCR3LigZdDCzmPCEAYkDqwUA5JnVXk-KBsGKw2zu1tZIor2htdQy1i2NROD5ueun-2PLZWDLxE-UNm7dFHmH7Yc180/s1600/Oslofjord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtYGylsW8Z8-TeelakFAxMaZh1wblU-EZybrjCf_HnMNMekbQLjCR3LigZdDCzmPCEAYkDqwUA5JnVXk-KBsGKw2zu1tZIor2htdQy1i2NROD5ueun-2PLZWDLxE-UNm7dFHmH7Yc180/s1600/Oslofjord.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-46134135187054409852013-09-19T05:15:00.000-07:002013-09-19T05:15:44.025-07:00Trees Are A Peacetime Invention<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few weeks ago,
I had the good fortune of visiting the Norwegian National Centre for Foreign
Languages in Education (</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="https://mail.fulbright.no/OWA/redir.aspx?C=ad3c0d1e461c480aa586ca70fedf31e9&URL=http%3a%2f%2fwww.fremmedspraksenteret.no%2f"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12.0pt;">www.fremmedspraksenteret.no</span></a>)
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">in Halden, near the Swedish
border.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While there, members of
the center took me and my fellow roving scholars to observe lower and upper
secondary schools. The trip provided a good foundation for the workshops that
I’m sharing with upper secondary students here and included a fantastic tour
and dinner at the Fredriksten Fortress, constructed in 1661 when a new border
with Sweden necessitated fortifications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am relatively untraveled in Europe, and I marveled at everything from
the thick walls of the gates to the cobblestone streets inside the Citadel to
the cannons to the image conjured by our guide of a bakery and brewery serving
the fortress’s residents. The superior photos of my fellow rover, Sarah Benson, will illustrate:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ex01qlC_fBLGBMZlaEfSGqncyvidutovoLVHWk0UxehcSD7AyLs3-2sbWaKp82V0pDmD2_x2FArIadKhqKxE94HEKoBp1d3zjq6npl8zIW-DBvYJ_k2OInEx_-B5FVXZA7K3vrQX-uU/s1600/Fredriksten+Fortress+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ex01qlC_fBLGBMZlaEfSGqncyvidutovoLVHWk0UxehcSD7AyLs3-2sbWaKp82V0pDmD2_x2FArIadKhqKxE94HEKoBp1d3zjq6npl8zIW-DBvYJ_k2OInEx_-B5FVXZA7K3vrQX-uU/s1600/Fredriksten+Fortress+road.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
thought that my fellow historians would especially appreciate an astute local-saying
regarding history, memory and Swedish King Charles XII, who died in a siege of
the fortress in 1718.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conspiracy
theories have surrounded his death since it occurred, and some believe that he
was killed by his own men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The evidence
for such a conclusion is shaky at best, but the story brings many tourists to
the fortress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a result,
residents of Halden like to say, “Long live the death of the king!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
struck me most, however, was our guide’s observation that “Trees are a
peacetime invention.” Fredriksten now serves as a park and amphitheatre, and
trees dotted the hillside along the back of the fortress and sheltered the
outdoor concert space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But none
were there during the fortress’s fighting days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to our guide, trees interfere with sight lines and
those we were enjoying had grown since the fortress ceased to serve military
purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpuTYD0lBsm5xpxIehD7KxuIJpVNolHaCPSz8skr9fXznSUrtTcn3aoIaZ9Fddf2qYS7_HHWroLvqqIBYb_HCPOybWgqMi_jEFXzRP7ketbZx0_h53WoDBfakseNCTmiu19Y3__3UXXs/s1600/Fredriksten+Fortress+guide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpuTYD0lBsm5xpxIehD7KxuIJpVNolHaCPSz8skr9fXznSUrtTcn3aoIaZ9Fddf2qYS7_HHWroLvqqIBYb_HCPOybWgqMi_jEFXzRP7ketbZx0_h53WoDBfakseNCTmiu19Y3__3UXXs/s1600/Fredriksten+Fortress+guide.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
comment was much on my mind for the following two weeks as my son began to
struggle with the language barrier at his school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not fond of martial metaphors to describe family
relations. And school mornings have not been a war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, battle may come close to being
the appropriate word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His school
has been warm and welcoming, and we know we are hardly the first parents to
navigate a classroom without the native language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, exhausted by struggling with the challenge of learning
a new system in a new language, we have gratefully greeted Friday afternoon,
having lived to fight another day.</span></div>
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</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Weekends brought
more time in English, our own schedule, and, not least, trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hiked among the trees in the forest above
the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We picked mushrooms
under dripping branches on a rainy Sunday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">On school days, I would look to the trees after I dropped my
son off and marvel at the timely arrival of autumn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My son brought home pictures of leaves labeled in Norwegian
and colored them in red, gold, and brown.</span><br />
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<!--StartFragment-->
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">A morning came when my son and I walked to school peacefully. We went through a nearby park and
watched the leaves swirl in a pond. And as we went, we talked about inventions. </span><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-55761664295020575382013-08-29T02:48:00.002-07:002013-08-29T02:48:32.238-07:00Reading the Landscape<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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Environmental historians speak
often of “reading the landscape.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They see signs of glaciation from the rich soil of the upper Midwestern
United States to the rocky inlets along the fjords here in Norway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They note a tree that grew towards the
light, perhaps away from a wall or the shade of its neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They note built paths that take them
through a park along approved routes and maverick paths that beeline towards a
swing set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Rarely, however, do
environmental historians mean something so literal as reading words written on
the land, but that was one of the first and most intriguing sights that I
encountered in our new neighborhood in Oslo:</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What struck me most was, first, that it was graffiti written
directly onto a rock wall and, second, that it was graffiti that was protected
and displayed as if it were in a museum – with a plastic cover and a wall
plaque:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ep2QHrKBRInBDTzbJ6rxJpDRHX-HB7X0gcIuGXlMP5YLU1vBZquo4zwOzVh5obEk8MAd6rDkGfFLCPAuqyDedpVQULvu8qcKTDdwt2zSK3tj0rHwqFvjjtohr4nzkRLgCUJvlgQ_5oI/s1600/graffit+with+marker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ep2QHrKBRInBDTzbJ6rxJpDRHX-HB7X0gcIuGXlMP5YLU1vBZquo4zwOzVh5obEk8MAd6rDkGfFLCPAuqyDedpVQULvu8qcKTDdwt2zSK3tj0rHwqFvjjtohr4nzkRLgCUJvlgQ_5oI/s320/graffit+with+marker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The text reads in Norwegian: Ver Tro Mot H7 meaning: Be true
to King Haakon VII.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little internet research (and, I confess, some possibly
questionable background knowledge culled from Joe Nesbø’s <i>The Redbreast</i>) revealed that the graffiti dates from World War II and
enjoined Norwegians to be faithful to the king during the Nazi occupation of
Norway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Altogether, the graffiti and its preservation strike me as
distinctly Norwegian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, in a
round-about way, is why:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I commonly begin my environmental history class by
describing one of my favorite walks in Los Angeles’s Griffith Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk used to take me past my own
potted, dwarf lemon tree and the manicured lawns of tony Los Feliz, across a
major street with four lanes of traffic, past a golf course, onto a hiking
trail, within sight of Griffith Park Observatory and the Hollywood sign, and
back home to my little lemon tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I ask my students to identify when I am closest to nature on the walk
and when I am farthest away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
couple of years ago a student said that the view of the Hollywood sign took me
farthest from nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s a
better example of human culture defiling the landscape than writing a word on
the land itself?” he challenged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“And what’s a better sign of the dregs of civilization than Hollywood?”
he continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here in Norway, something like the Hollywood sign is indeed
hard to imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reverence for
nature is a part of the Norwegian national character, perhaps best illustrated
in the concept of allemannsrett, translated as freedom to roam or everyman’s
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Norwegians can hike, camp,
gather mushrooms, pick berries, assemble a bouquet, canoe and otherwise enjoy
the outdoors on almost any uncultivated land -- of which there’s a lot in
Norway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, there’s no
tragedy of the commons here – the right relies on the assumption that
Norwegians will protect such spaces, and here’s what’s incredible to this
American: They do!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So valuable is nature to Norwegians that their rights depend
on its protection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone has
freedom to roam so everyone better take care of where they’re roaming. Thus my
surprise at seeing graffiti on a rock wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a lot of graffiti in Oslo, but defiling a rock
wall, even in an urban park, seemed beyond the pale to me at first glance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, of course, this was historical
graffiti, and apparently the H7 monogram was a common tag on buildings, fences
and other man-made structures during the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s more Norwegian than to demand loyalty to Norway on a
piece of nature? Buildings and fences might not last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A rock, however, is likely to persevere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Norwegians will guarantee it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-16137007597048479802013-08-15T11:59:00.001-07:002013-08-15T11:59:38.226-07:00The City and The Country<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
stunning fjords? The bright Scandinavian summer sun? The first stroll in a
European city?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nei!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What turned my son’s head, what steeled
his will to overcome his jet lag and culture shock, what first tickled him
was…garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
I had a hint when he marveled at
our toilet, outfitted with different buttons for solid and liquid waste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s familiar with such toilets from
public places at home – he knows when to pull up on the green handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, when I explained the two different buttons on our toilet in our apartment here, he exclaimed: “That’s a
really great toilet!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
couple of days later we took a ferry to a neighboring island with a fellow
Fulbrighter, Sarah.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBZrxXIsMbpTHjhDLXxpP_xR9OdZUAgrY0mxT_QWnd8LBX5QXcB1tyMFLVbfUuw9fQR9InbKVvYhhyphenhyphenVcCa9h-wqkVDqdtERG_u2SlPNxjjnd1nyr1RIwqpk779m1btBLrBPsyGRQm_mw/s1600/island+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBZrxXIsMbpTHjhDLXxpP_xR9OdZUAgrY0mxT_QWnd8LBX5QXcB1tyMFLVbfUuw9fQR9InbKVvYhhyphenhyphenVcCa9h-wqkVDqdtERG_u2SlPNxjjnd1nyr1RIwqpk779m1btBLrBPsyGRQm_mw/s640/island+view.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rain
threatened, but we took our chances and headed off to explore Lang<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">ø</span>yene.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDO4IJ-ifuURkhfimj2wm2cdu3reuOXt0wPcdZ3npucxNqB7q5hD4D96lWdCmvZUHQugL_IYvbGvOQdVy3_Vy_BlGD8abIlYRBRFbd2CoKNw6MP5NQ-w9SHIlskHN92qBfAMnjAkFc-8/s1600/walking+on+island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDO4IJ-ifuURkhfimj2wm2cdu3reuOXt0wPcdZ3npucxNqB7q5hD4D96lWdCmvZUHQugL_IYvbGvOQdVy3_Vy_BlGD8abIlYRBRFbd2CoKNw6MP5NQ-w9SHIlskHN92qBfAMnjAkFc-8/s400/walking+on+island.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Lang<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">ø</span>yene
was once two islands, but has been joined with landfill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That might have been the source of all
the, well, garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Broken
crockery clinked in the waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJsHDPgjVh8G4DoWdZgE_d_dFogDdCPW6N5l5RHNaNTaqSeE67x2zf5iiGt9gBvjhHW_LnHbeJqUVt3g94-XRHehZ5kg6mvHLXf5ODDLO5yvULv69hLeDNSjYCBXXLLreW3jMNCg2cvc/s1600/broken+crockery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJsHDPgjVh8G4DoWdZgE_d_dFogDdCPW6N5l5RHNaNTaqSeE67x2zf5iiGt9gBvjhHW_LnHbeJqUVt3g94-XRHehZ5kg6mvHLXf5ODDLO5yvULv69hLeDNSjYCBXXLLreW3jMNCg2cvc/s1600/broken+crockery.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>In
addition to his greatest find: a rusted plug (I think),<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjow0bTIF0_iHiSMckVB7VWjqIHz0HT0jsS6oBi71E1VkxMQG3XSE8YcL7Zm5oGqc8d3c2yjHSOtRUkoIXYBHxprJh2eKHIwh5F9F0zU3aCAJmIRSz9jqxdXUp8d_i6VerMXYn3zr6_z68/s1600/2013-08-14+12.07.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjow0bTIF0_iHiSMckVB7VWjqIHz0HT0jsS6oBi71E1VkxMQG3XSE8YcL7Zm5oGqc8d3c2yjHSOtRUkoIXYBHxprJh2eKHIwh5F9F0zU3aCAJmIRSz9jqxdXUp8d_i6VerMXYn3zr6_z68/s1600/2013-08-14+12.07.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Kevin also found a
broken bottle top worn smooth by the waves and a number of shells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sarah spotted a lovely bit of
pottery that we intend to give to my mom for mosaic making.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
appetite for the detritus of civilization satisfied, Kevin could finally give
his attention to some of the more natural features of the island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He clambered over a few rocks,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoElVvjZ6yYE7YgiiUbsN0KwvnmQ1e29bUxbTQ9zFbrKuinWnn2wnkvUMdi-2tLRAe83z2zeU4ubjvObl48xU9gxLLZOBwhjIapJVdI91ZmyRjCt6p0QE6kaxrJEuIUwTK8gPEmSSo00/s1600/Kevin+on+rocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoElVvjZ6yYE7YgiiUbsN0KwvnmQ1e29bUxbTQ9zFbrKuinWnn2wnkvUMdi-2tLRAe83z2zeU4ubjvObl48xU9gxLLZOBwhjIapJVdI91ZmyRjCt6p0QE6kaxrJEuIUwTK8gPEmSSo00/s320/Kevin+on+rocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
steered clear of a flock of geese,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT_yeznDZ3V9fzE7wgQ6VbINym3Zg_EZHz4LPFUDkcBHEBFlI_KYPq3ccyGIx8uG69Koumo7ubjQAnMVj5A_E5DNFt2S2vnQfR4mVsRj41tpAjiQdwuLGRu9Zkw3TVsj5YHsK32Fziqc/s1600/geese+on+island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnT_yeznDZ3V9fzE7wgQ6VbINym3Zg_EZHz4LPFUDkcBHEBFlI_KYPq3ccyGIx8uG69Koumo7ubjQAnMVj5A_E5DNFt2S2vnQfR4mVsRj41tpAjiQdwuLGRu9Zkw3TVsj5YHsK32Fziqc/s320/geese+on+island.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
and mourned the loss of a crab shell that crumbled in his pocket.<br />
<br />
His agony was brief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The next day Sarah presented him with a perfectly whole crab shell in a
lovely jewelry box.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v8zjXVuprFKLVoau6P5oNLLXO5cX5_796S9TKA_FDgOxCRt13ZFPXBYlFK7DcfeYiwf0hEOicElIa9p2JV4TG08JEkMfqhESZGrdWwtTkwQ_P2hLHcv375Gw3_wcfZUmziFIxRB7kTI/s1600/crab+shell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v8zjXVuprFKLVoau6P5oNLLXO5cX5_796S9TKA_FDgOxCRt13ZFPXBYlFK7DcfeYiwf0hEOicElIa9p2JV4TG08JEkMfqhESZGrdWwtTkwQ_P2hLHcv375Gw3_wcfZUmziFIxRB7kTI/s320/crab+shell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Later, as we headed
toward the troll statue across from the Holmenkollen ski jump, he told me:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfvfQWaJkgpeBH-dLfHdZKHZ7_AB_1sjnbY4igatnHuoup2V-Wlbl1XsQX6SkNcx_vDb74i0ZRMkiHFUJb53Bk2Id_ro8j_YY0Bk6XDN8jTLPO0AtMF47mck6IFP_ph-CxtgUUlbp9K4/s1600/ski+jump+with+perspective.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfvfQWaJkgpeBH-dLfHdZKHZ7_AB_1sjnbY4igatnHuoup2V-Wlbl1XsQX6SkNcx_vDb74i0ZRMkiHFUJb53Bk2Id_ro8j_YY0Bk6XDN8jTLPO0AtMF47mck6IFP_ph-CxtgUUlbp9K4/s640/ski+jump+with+perspective.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtPJXYWlFrNEowt8pKh-cAlE5AS8Y1nXz6uEPyWZMGOLtX3NjA3A4Rj_-WL2LHw6YUVf_aSYbwCR9s-2Fxgcob5nq-tFyysD9ekhyssD_4nOGa_1VTmvJKWN11brPytwG_4YdnfXnGbs/s1600/troll+and+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtPJXYWlFrNEowt8pKh-cAlE5AS8Y1nXz6uEPyWZMGOLtX3NjA3A4Rj_-WL2LHw6YUVf_aSYbwCR9s-2Fxgcob5nq-tFyysD9ekhyssD_4nOGa_1VTmvJKWN11brPytwG_4YdnfXnGbs/s400/troll+and+family.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“It’s
amazing to have all this,” he gestured at the trees and clouds, “right here in
a city.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-59817747838553066652013-08-10T13:59:00.000-07:002013-08-10T13:59:09.902-07:00There's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever Norwegian first thought of the saying: “There’s no
bad weather, only bad clothing,” evidently had never spent a summer in St.
Louis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One could, I suppose, go
naked, but even that would be uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even summer is a misnomer because there are actually five
seasons between Spring and Fall in St. Louis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are: Tornado, Allergies, Bugs Biting You, Regular
Summer, Unbearable Heat, and Other Allergies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, such seasons are not marked on the calendar
with the same happy festivals that commemorate solstices and harvests.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this summer has been different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As early as June, I began remarking on
it to friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is this what
halcyon means?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
weather was not too hot or too cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A pleasant breeze blew. A friend at a neighborhood café said, “I don’t
know.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think it’s halcyon.” I
said with certainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ignoring all the advice I give my students about looking
words up before using them, I began to use the word, if only in my thoughts, to
describe the whole summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
perfect temperature beckoned me and my dog to Forest Park day after day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That pleasant breeze blew as I watched
my fig tree, from a stump of eighteen inches surge past the fence line of our
yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“By August,” I thought, “it
will be over twelve feet high.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
had some hot days, but they were close enough to the halcyon ones that I forgot
them quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that perfect temperature and perfect breeze followed us
across the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a day at
Pittsburgh’s Kennywood Amusement Park with my in-laws to an afternoon watching
the monsoon clouds gather over the Sangre de Cristos in Santa Fe to one last picnic with friends in the neighborhood, all I could
think was “These are the halcyon days.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time of our departure to Norway, the phrase had
become a habit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our last day in
the U.S., I finally looked up the word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically calm and
peaceful,” the Oxford English Dictionary told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All summer, Norway had been on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All summer, I had seen the weather I
called halcyon as a good sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Turns out that a word I thought meant auspicious actually means
nostalgic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
last day, we drove through 90-degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures to deliver our
cars to my husband’s aunt and uncle in St. Charles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
thighs were sticking to the car seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My aunt drove us back to St. Louis on the return trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got stuck in traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The light glared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all sweated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked to listen to a cd my husband
made for himself and his friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It opened with a cover of “Joy Round My Brain,” which you can listen to
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJ6DSjzAk0c">here</a>: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/rJ6DSjzAk0c?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was halcyon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-24361435922421350282013-08-06T06:51:00.002-07:002013-08-06T06:51:19.030-07:00Suburban koan<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Suburban Koan<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the changes that I’m most eagerly anticipating in my life in Norway is that
I will have a chance to enjoy my time out in nature more instead of working on
my yard in…um…nature.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Any
good environmental historian will tell you that nature is ever-present: in the
coal that powers my computer as I type, in the cotton of the tablecloth under
my arms, in the crickets I can hear outside the window, in the breeze from the
open window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I find it hard to
see every nature as equal or equally pleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe that St. Louis’s nature would be a challenge to
the most devoted outdoors-person, and I’m definitely not the most devoted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
husband finds me sweaty and bug-bitten while I google gardening
approaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m looking for a
different standard of gardening, one less standard, less rigid, looser and
maybe, well, funkier than what seems to be the suburban American norm of square
lawn with 3-5 ornamental plants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
knew better than to try “organic gardening,” which I assume would only lead to
organic farming certification sites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Heritage gardening” takes me to heirloom seed sites – cool, but not
what I’m looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Surely,
there are hipsters in Brooklyn developing, like, alternative lawns, right?”
Then I realize that most folks in Brooklyn don’t have lawns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you think I need to try ‘lazy
gardening’?” I ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How about B+
gardening?” my husband proposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
yard troubles me in general, but nothing, nothing troubles me more than the
leaves falling. Two falls ago, I watched the season begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fell from the three pin oaks in
our front yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fell from
the silver maple in our back yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leaves fell from the neighbor’s trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fell from the park trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fell from my shoes when I walked in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And fell. And fell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
New Mexican girl that I am, the majestic and melancholy
autumn was initially novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
is a hardly a tree within sight of my childhood home that exceeds a single
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pine and juniper predominate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very idea that leaves could fall
challenged my imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Combined with owning my first home, I couldn’t wait to greet the
season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I will rake in the crisp
evening air!” I declared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I will
meditate on the passing of seasons.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I will assemble vast piles of leaves and my son and I will jump into
them and laugh and gaze at the crystal blue sky.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such were my plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In reality, pin oaks drop their leaves for almost the entire year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve raked in June when it was 85
degrees Fahrenheit and I’ve raked in mid-February as my nose ran and the sun set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m allergic to the silver maple, and
even poking my head out the back door can initiate a bout of sneezing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never tried jumping in a pile of
its leaves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, no
matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leaves are going to
keep falling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might have been able to get my head around the leaves, but
then came the leaf blowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear
them in June and October and March.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They whine and bellow and they seem never, ever to stop their relentless
pursuit of the leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear them
as I pull on my mittens and slip off my flip-flops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear them even when they’re not running: I hear an ear
worm leaf blower in the shower and over the blender, and sometimes in the music
of my son’s video games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
rake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the leaf blowers
blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the leaves are going to
keep falling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
did people do before leaf blowers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What do they do without leaf blowers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do some googling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I realize that my husband would call this B+ research.) I
learn that as far away as <a href="http://brianedwardsmedia.co.nz/2013/01/you-can-take-my-leaf-blower-from-my-cold-dead-hands-leaf-blower-hell-revisited/">New
Zealand</a> I have compatriots at their wits’ end over leaf blowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find this awesome cartoon <a href="http://www.independent.com/news/2008/oct/23/leaf-blowers-legacy/">here</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6JLdAbAND5SSSJvEjD_yOm2-EP1MwDQpQHRWn2XF5-ed-VBGNlTjnKJQNLfo9gk0KqxsZIQmjQqiJSr51MnXQxLURR0GH5uUNuzqh4mpbMsLX39ZcNN-szsVeIiykXFFmwk-mHHwSw0/s1600/leaf+blower+image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6JLdAbAND5SSSJvEjD_yOm2-EP1MwDQpQHRWn2XF5-ed-VBGNlTjnKJQNLfo9gk0KqxsZIQmjQqiJSr51MnXQxLURR0GH5uUNuzqh4mpbMsLX39ZcNN-szsVeIiykXFFmwk-mHHwSw0/s1600/leaf+blower+image.jpg" height="144" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learn that leaf blowers inspire <a href="http://www.wired.com/science/discoveries/news/2005/09/68885">obsession</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standards wouldn’t be so high if
it weren’t possible to get every speck of dirt, every leaf off of the lawn, off
of the sidewalk, off of the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, I also see the
advantages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The landscapers my
neighbor’s employ can clear the front yard in the time it takes me to wipe the
snot from my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have work
to do and doing work efficiently is satisfying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe as satisfying as raking in the crisp air of an autumn
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There are leaf blowers in Oslo, and
I imagine snow blowers too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
we’ll be living in an apartment, and I won’t be out in our yard raking and
shoveling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’ll miss
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day last winter I was
raking our driveway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A leaf had
lodged itself in a crack of the sidewalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I raked over it once, twice, maybe five times even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leaf rested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let it be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could get it next time. The leaves are
going to keep falling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-79360701772449433902013-07-02T10:23:00.000-07:002013-07-02T10:23:23.203-07:00Stuff<div class="MsoNormal">
Packing up for a year’s adventure has elicited the following
exclamations from me: “Why do we have so much %*&#^@ stuff?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Where did all this #$&% come from?”
And, most frequently, “#$*%!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
did we get so many $%*# piles of %$*?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There aren’t that many of us in our household: me, my husband, my son,
and our (albeit large) goldendoodle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So how did we get so much stuff?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More than one sweaty afternoon of collapsing cardboard boxes,
piling seemingly useless electronics, and sorting clothes in a mammoth box
labeled: “sentimental t-shirts” has sent me to the internet for the refreshing
sight of tiny houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I linger
over sleek modern Norwegian summer homes and Norwegian Koie, turf-roofed cabins
that look to me like they house fairies and elves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are really tiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PYrmejrxWNvunlzUXsxfbTMcWya24t7X5b_FYfkqo_2icmwF-fhjn_rBN_2QHKGsad6lEGWrOCOyVqdHZvSarQ0JYdI15Bpl6XSFiBIdsZRNeX6gfRNPeHjWvE5iUWoz1en-01QPAII/s600/Norwegian-Koie-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PYrmejrxWNvunlzUXsxfbTMcWya24t7X5b_FYfkqo_2icmwF-fhjn_rBN_2QHKGsad6lEGWrOCOyVqdHZvSarQ0JYdI15Bpl6XSFiBIdsZRNeX6gfRNPeHjWvE5iUWoz1en-01QPAII/s320/Norwegian-Koie-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband finds me eating an ice cream bar and scrolling through
photographs of 400-square- foot rustic-modern cabins with secret compartments,
spring-loaded Murphy beds, and swiveling walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If we had a house like this, we would never have too
much stuff.” I tell him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is
unimpressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I explain to visitors
looking at the explosion of books, cds, and rough drafts littering his study
floor: “He needs space to be messy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At almost 1600 square feet, our house is not tiny, but
neither is it the McMansion that I think occupy the nightmares of some tiny
house dwellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is just
enough room to be messy in our house, just enough room to accumulate piles of
stuff. </div>
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By the time I near the end of the basement-cleaning job, I
am ecstatically embracing the hard-won space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell neighbors they should come see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It is unfinished, and, like all St.
Louis basements, dank.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the
last objects to go is an old wardrobe box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has a door cut into one side, a window into another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been adorned with stickers and drawings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, I find a cardboard tube covered
in felt and ribbons: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a periscope,
a magic wand, maybe a chimney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s been hard to say good-bye to this box even though it’s been years
since my son played in it regularly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reminds me of my childhood afternoons spent under desks
and tables and in boxes of my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My stuffed animals gathered around me, a tea set, and, for reasons only
my five-year-old self could explain, a bottle of my mother’s hair spray could
make any space my own little home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s hard to throw away my son’s tiny house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picture my husband walking a visitor through our basement
in a few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will explain:
“She needs space to be sentimental.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4795520614410892885.post-40620114079295172642013-07-02T08:04:00.000-07:002013-07-02T10:17:36.817-07:00Nature of Norway<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hei!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hei!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My family and I are preparing to leave for a year in Norway
where I will be working as a Fulbright Roving Scholar in Norway’s secondary
schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My focus has been on the
workshops in American culture that I will offer while I’m there, but I found
that preparing to leave the U.S. for the year has also prompted me to reflect
on one of my research and writing interests: the environment and its history.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To capture these thoughts,
I’m dedicating this blog to my reflections on the nature of Norway, reflections that I’ve found begin with the nature of my own household here in
the United States.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12283750414863167354noreply@blogger.com0