CATEGORY: NORWAY

On our last night in Ferda I was singled out by a tall, good looking Norwegian dancer.  He asked me to dance several times, and then for every dance for the rest of the evening.  He had dark hair, which somehow seemed a let down.  After all, this was Norway, and I was on vacation!  Shouldn’t things be picture perfect when one is on vacation?  Shouldn’t he be blonde?  However, I let that slide.  He was pleasant and an exceptionally good dancer.  After the dance, he politely asked if he could drive me back to my lodging house.  I accepted.  When we got there, he asked if I would like to sit in the car and talk for awhile.  He had not been at all aggressive, so I said yes.

When he said “talk for awhile,” he actually meant it.  Furthermore, he wanted to talk about ME.  Surprise, surprise!  He started asking me questions about myself.  After a few minutes of this, it suddenly occurred to me that I was being interviewed.  I thought, ‘This guy is looking for a wife’!

And a few minutes later I found out I was right!  He told me that he wanted to buy a forty acre farm, which in Norway is considered a good sized farm.  I was amazed to learn that the Norwegian government decides who can or cannot own farms.  They favored married men with families or married men who wanted to have families.  He was divorced so that was a strike against him.  His decisive interview with the committee was coming up in three weeks.  If he could tell them that he was engaged to be married it would help his cause.  So he asked me to marry him and apologized for the seeming haste.  What he didn’t apologize for was not being blond.

Even though I wondered why he had chosen an American who was only visiting in Norway, I was honored by his request.  He was obviously a fine person.  I didn’t ask him any of the questions that were flitting through my mind, such as why he hadn’t asked one of the many beautiful Norwegian women, with whom the country was overflowing: maybe even a farmer’s daughter who would have made him a much better wife than I, and whom the committee would surely have found much more acceptable.

I must admit that there was a brief moment when visions of old Norwegian farms danced through my head.  I had been to the Folk Museum and seen the charming antique Norwegian farmsteads imported from all over Norway.  I almost opened my mouth to ask if his prospective farm might–just might–be a match for one of those.  Could it possibly have a Stabbur, a beautifully carved and picturesque small building that served as a store house for food and valuables, and second only to stave churches as the most beautiful ancient buildings in Norway?  Or might it at least have a carved “bord” (table) and maybe a rosemaled cupboard?  But I coughed behind my hand just in time.

Many times after that, I would ask myself, “Supposing I had said yes? Where would I be RIGHT NOW”?  Would I be making Lefse?  Would I be milking cows? Would I be pitching hay onto a hay pole while trying to keep my balance on one of their many near-vertical fields.  Would I be shoveling manure?  I don’t think he asked me that particular question, but if he had, my answer would have scored a gold star on his chart.  I certainly knew how to shovel manure.  AND milk cows.  AND pitch hay too.  I ALSO knew how to tear up and remodel his house.  Little did he know that he had been walking on the edge of a cliff.