Norway: Episode I: Our “Odyssey”

by Malcolm and Tim (the Dale sweater-bearers)

[NOTE: to be read with a dramatic James Earl Jones impression]

Tuesday, March 7. Centerra. The van…*

*(Note: there were actually 2 vans, but we took some artistic liberties.)

As we drove to Logan, our pulses fluttered. You could taste the excitement in the air. This was not an Eastern Cup weekend. THIS. WAS. NORWAY.

We arrived at Logan, checked our oversized luggage, which contained the invaluables–our skis and wax. We made it through security with minimal detainments. But our yogurt was not so lucky. Three of the four yogurts were ripped from our hungry hands and disposed of accordingly (most likely thrown out, or eaten by the infamous TSA). Injustice.

Three hours later…

The plane’s wheels lift off the ground. The plane’s turbines roar. And, swiftly, we rise toward the heavens. We made every effort to sleep on the way to Reykjavik, but our excitement soon overcame our thoughts of sleep.

Approximately five hours later, we touched down in Reykjavik, Iceland. The sun had not yet graced the small island nation with its light. But the light within our hearts illuminated our path through customs, with the help of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. We did not have long before we boarded our next plane, and so we hustled with a brisk shuffle to docking bay 23C. (Fun fact: Icelandic airports don’t have chairs.)

The flight from Iceland to Oslo was shorter than the last. In a few minutes, the plane rose from the runway, and with it, the sun.

Over the Atlantic we flew, looking down upon the tiny waves, far below us, obscured by a tattered blanket of thick clouds. We almost missed the transition from water to land as the icy Norwegian sea became the snow-covered fjords of Norway. The mountains, like waves, rippled interminably throughout the land. And, within only a couple short hours, we touched down in the land of skiing, trolls, and screaming babies: Norway.

The airport, lavishly decorated, seemed to reflect the Norwegian’s seafaring history. The body of a ship hung over one of the main stairwells. After we had claimed our luggage and acquired some Norwegian kroners, we waited outside for our vans. Looking to our right outside the airport, one could see the wooden bows of an armada of Norse ships protruding aggressively into the wind.

We scrapped together a lunch of exploded peanut butter, cheese juice, and fruity contraband (just apples). We fiendishly devoured our makeshift lunch. And, as we waited for Norsk Country Auto to arrive with our vans, we breathed in our first deep breaths of crisp Norwegian air. Norway at last.


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