Pending

Day 10: We made contact with Ole and arranged our pick up in Lillisand.

We assumed Ole was short for ‘Ole, Ole, Ole,’ but it turns out it’s pronounced “ooola” and is short for a very excitable Norwegian man who is incredibly overly enthusiastic about family ties and has very strong opinions about how you should spend your time in Norway.

We willingly got into his car as if we were sending money to a Nigerian princess who just needed $500 to get access to her bank account worth millions.

I caught Anna’s eye and thought she gave me an endearing look of love for having finally reached our destination, but in retrospect we were each giving each other the look of wanton and reckless naivety.

We made it to the farm where we proceeded to party, brains first, into the shallow end of a pool filled not with water but the traditional Norwegian dish of prawns (faces intact!) and mayonnaise.

Day 11: Family reunion day or our experience as bobble head dolls.

There was a constant and heavy flow of introductions. All with complimentary smiles, nods, sometimes handshakes, and other times awkward hugs that feel more like stern shoulder grabs with a light cheek touch more suited for the beginning of a wrestling match than a brief genealogical shakedown.

We greeted and exchanged stories with about half of the 100 + attendees, and though we told the same story every time, we never seemed to get any better at it.

There were songs, raffles, cake, marriage proposals, competitions, group photos, with all participants clad in the same electric blue youth style screen printed shirt that said “Kjaerviga.” This was the name of the farm my great grandfather’s brother bought and since has been slowly divided up into a complex community of familial timeshares.

Overall the day was exhausting. After a sunset sing along and a long conversation about how the viking raiders were actually pretty suave dudes, we went to sleep.

Day 12: Often we are told, “come with me” and equally as often we are given absolutely zero explanation of what we are getting into. To make it all the more challenging, people don’t drink water and eat scant amounts of food at “is-this-thing-on!?”-questioningly long intervals.

Today we went on what we thought would be a short trip that turned into an all day excursion to the Eikines farm where my great grandfather was born and raised.

It’s a simple house, architecturally reminiscent of something a kindergartener would draw. Complete with a classic norwegian farm plot, grassy with rock outcroppings, on the shore of a small lake surrounded by trees (clearly this kindergartener has a future in the arts). Its complexity was held in its veiled stories, a centuries existence, holding at times 12 residents with only the voice of a weathered elderly woman not proficiently trained in the language I speak.  

Then my journal just says “The Lewis Times” to encapsulate the next three days in which we had a pleasent boat ride and made our way to Oslo.