It was a grey and windy afternoon, and a few small raindrops glistened on top of the black suitcase I carried. I stood in front of Oslo Central Station and pulled out my phone. It connected to the nearby restaurant’s WiFi. I located myself on a map, and crossed the construction in the park towards the bus station.
The ticket machine wouldn’t accept my credit card without a pin number – or at least that’s what I gathered from what little Norwegian I understood – so I dug through my pockets and the bottom of my purse for 30 kroner for a one-way pass. Everyone at the bus stop stared as I examined each coin to determine its value. The bus was there ten minutes later, and I hauled my suitcase into a row and sunk into the seat beside it.
I stared out the window as we passed through the city, and into the southern end of Oslo. The cityscape quickly turned into seafront views, dotted by boats tethered to worn wooden docks. The windows were flecked with tiny drops from the cloudy sky, and my hair was slightly frizzy.
I pressed the button as we approached Gladvollveien, and heaved my suitcase back down the steps onto the sidewalk. Above the clay tile roof of a grey house, I could see the gentle ripples of the sea. I lifted my suitcase once again, going down a set of steps, where I knocked on the front door of the house. A middle-aged man opened the door, welcomed me, and let me in.
Truls was his name. He was calm, reserved, and alert. A professor of Norwegian, I learned. He showed me to my room upstairs, a tiny room equipped with a small refrigerator, a kettle, and some cookies. A balcony opened to a sitting area, overlooking the vast sea and Oslo fjord.
Once Truls left me to unpack, I went out to the balcony, oblivious to the raindrops still trying to reach ground, and leaned on the railing. The sea looked even more blue beneath the grey sky. The fjords stood prominently in the distance, guarding the capitol city.
I stood for a couple hours, captivated by the cold sea breeze and gentle wrinkles in the blue water. My focus broke with the clouds, as they made way for a glimpse of blue sky and sun. The Norwegian sun was surprisingly warm, and dried out the sprinkling sky.
I changed my clothes and made the next bus, feeling much lighter without my heavy suitcase. Again, I stared out the window, watching the docks and boats pass by until we reached the city center, where buildings and people sprang up around us. I hopped off at Børsen, unsure of where I was, and crossed a side street to follow the swelling of the buildings. Apartment buildings lined the streets until I reached Karl Johans gate.
I walked up Karl Johans gate until I reached the Royal Palace, where I circled around through the parks and watched couples pass by. An old man sat alone on a bench, not entirely still, but quite content. A middle-aged woman held a small Yorkie on a leash. A young Asian couple held hands quietly as they strolled.
I walked quickly but silently. I don’t remember thinking much in that moment. The sky began to turn pink above me, and the crowds thinned. I walked back towards the bus stop, picking up a ham sandwich at 7-Eleven (I’d worked up an appetite), and pausing along the way outside Burger King to connect to WiFi and check the bus schedule.
I had barely been idle for a moment when a skinny young man approached me. He had dark brown circles under his eyes, and his blonde hair was tousled. His jeans fit him a bit too loosely, and were held up by a worn belt. He held a small brown bag in his hand, gripped around the top.
He spoke to me in slurred Norwegian. I looked the other way and answered, “Sorry, I don’t understand.” Even in his stupor, he understood.
“You have a very pretty face,” he muttered in garbled English. “I’m just out of prison but I’m clean,” he said. “I know my hair is messed up and I’m not dressed nicely, but if that wasn’t the case, would you have sex with me?”
I gathered my things, straightened my coat, and began to leave. He followed me down Karl Johans Gate. “I have a boyfriend,” I lied.
“But if you didn’t?”
I continued to walk.
“Do you want some wine?” he asked, holding up the brown bag.
“No thanks,” I answered, and I lost him.
Twenty minutes later I was on the 83 bus back to Gladvollveien. It was getting cold outside, and I was glad for the warm bus. I found an empty seat towards the back. I had been on the bus for close to ten minutes when I realized we were going a different way than I had been before when I first arrived at Gladvollveien a few hours ago.
The driver went down a side street, where he let two young girls off, and then did a U-turn. He made an announcement in Norwegian, but no one seemed disturbed. I thought nothing of it.
Minutes later, a confused Indian man went to the front of the bus, where he was let off. Still, I thought nothing. Gladvollveien was approaching on the monitor, and I pressed the button. He didn’t stop. Confused, I pressed the button again for the next stop. He still didn’t stop.
I went to the front of the bus just as the driver was attempting to do a U-turn off of a steep hill onto a busy street. The bus didn’t fit. He tried to back up, and the side of the bus screeched against a traffic light. Standing up, I grabbed a handle with both hands to steady myself. The traffic light turned sideways.
“I’ve been trying to get out,” I told the bus driver, completely perplexed. “Could I get off at the next stop?”
Minutes later, he opened the door, and I stepped out. I looked at the schedule at the covered stop, expecting an 83 schedule. It wasn’t an 83 bus stop. It wasn’t even on the 83’s route. I had no idea what had happened on the bus, or why I was at an unknown stop.
It was dark by now, and no one was around. It was dead silent, except for the rippling sea. I was completely lost in a foreign country. Could hardly understand the bus schedule, which was written in Norwegian, with names of bus stops I had never heard before. Running my finger down the list of stops on the 81 bus, I came by Vølund. I recognized that name from the monitor on the 83. If I got there, I could get the 83 to Gladvollveien – assuming the 83 was still running, after what I had just witnessed.
I waited twenty minutes for the bus. Everyone on board stared as I climbed on. My anguish must have shown on my face. I got off at Vølund, and checked the bus schedule. Sure enough, the 83 was due in 23 minutes. I wondered if the bus would even come. It was only 9:30, but the night felt like a timeless vacuum. I could hardly see, except for faint lights from windows of seaside houses spilling into the street. There were no noises except for the wind passing over swaying tree branches and the rippling sea.
I understood then why I was so brave to come to Norway alone. It was cold, I was stranded, and I was defenseless. I thought of how alone I was, how vulnerable I was compared to an hour ago, when I confidently got rid of the strung out pervert on Karl Johans gate.
Looking around, I was in the safest neighborhood in the capitol city of one of the safest countries. While I was no less vulnerable, I couldn’t have been less at risk anywhere. Keeping this in mind, I decided it was no use worrying about my predicament. While the time seemed nonexistent, the bus would run for several more hours, and I could do nothing but wait.
I pulled my 7-Eleven ham sandwich out of my purse. I realized in that moment that I was still starving, and my stomach was growling. Biting into the sandwich, the dry bread crumbled in my mouth. I peeled back the wrapper, and realized I had picked up gluten-free. The bread turned chalky as I tried to chew, and stuck to the roof of my mouth.
I started smiling, and quickly that smile turned into a small snicker. The longer I giggled, the less I could control it. Suddenly, I was in tears, rolling my head back against the wall of the bus stop, and laughing out loud, all by myself. Here I was, lost in Norway with no idea if my bus was even coming, trying to eat the most god-awful sandwich I’d ever tasted in my life. If anyone had walked down that deserted street, they would have seen me stomping my feet, laughing uncontrollably, holding a sandwich that was dropping giant pieces of bread on the ground with every move I made.
I got home that night, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock before I was back on the balcony, smiling over the glimmering sea waters under the moonlight, protected by the solemn Oslo fjords. I thought at that point that I had seen the most astounding welcome Oslo could possibly have in store for me.
How very wrong I was…
