October 30, 2010: Cultural difference number 1: Shoes

 

Not to be worn inside. EVER.

Prior to me developing into a competent and independent traveler, I went to Europe with an organized travel group and I can recall our tour guide telling everyone when approaching new cultures to think to ourselves that, “…it is not wrong, it is just different.” Although my Master’s itself is in Cross Cultural Communication, I have found this simple sentence a key to acceptance in several different situations, in several different countries. With these words of wisdom in mind, I would like to dedicate the next few blogs (projecting to the future forces me to continue my futile attempt at blogging) to all of the “different” customs that I have encountered whilst residing in Stavanger, Norway.

Cultural  difference number 1: Shoes

I first picked up on this “difference” when I was living in Sydney and my boyfriend was watching me pack for a weekend trip to the Gold Coast. I had an early flight and I wanted to get an outfit ready to throw on in the morning, shoes and all. So, I picked out some jeans, a top and a pair of boots and I flung them on my desk mindlessly to make room in a not so roomy room. When I did this, a noise of disgust mixed with a shrill scream exhaled from him and I thought perhaps there was a huntsman spider- roughly the size of a hand- or maybe a four inch cockroach in the room. Once I realized there was no Jurassic Period insect in my room, I realized his attention was fixated upon the boots sitting upon my desk. (For those of you siding with him, I admit it now that yes, it was gross; but if you heard that noise, you would have thought he just watched childbirth on a documentary- as that was the only ever time that noise was replicated).  So, this was my first encounter with Norwegians, or at least my Norwegian, and their distaste with shoes, specifically the bottom of them.

For two and a half months I decided it would be a good idea to live with three Norwegian men in Melbourne. Shoes were required to stay in the entry hallway (which was about two feet wide and none of us had small feet); thus, making half for hallway serving its purpose and giving access to the entire apartment and the other half home to four shoe collections. Visitors were to abide by these rules as well, even if they just had to stop in to use the bathroom, or grab their jacket, or grab a drink, or defuse a bomb, no exceptions. This mentality may fly in the States if say the people are new homeowners, there is mud on your shoes, there is new carpet, or it is a home you are not familiar with and are not sure what to do. However, this apartment very likely shared the same birth year as me based upon its pink countertops, burgundy tile and teal carpet. When questioning these young men about their strong convictions about shoes they cited the primary cause of not wearing shoes in the house was because, “If some food falls on the floor, I want to be able to eat it and not think about my dirty shoes on the carpet before the food fell.” Hmm, yes, I did see their point; however I would not eat off of that carpet unless I was paid a substantial amount of money. At least, say, $12 AUD, as that was my hourly wage at the pizza shop I worked at there. Anyway, my point is, this was when I realized the shoe thing was not just my boyfriend’s freakish hygienic obsession; no, this was a clear cultural difference.

I thought I had my head wrapped around this whole shoe issue, but alas, I found an entirely new dimension to it when I joined a gym. When you first walk into the gym there are two large shoe racks, a bench and two buckets filled with blue plastic bags. The first time I observed these fixtures in the entryway (probably on my third visit) I did not want to ask as I like to pretend that I am fluent in Norwegian and if I ask then the secret is out. So, I did what anyone does who does not want to speak but needs to require information, I observed. While pretending to read the class schedules, I watched someone as they sat on the bench and took off their shoes. They then proceeded to pull out another pair of gym shoes and put them on and then entered the training center. I then saw someone grab two blue plastic bags and place one over each shoe, similar to a doctor I suppose, and then entered the gym. The third person took off their shoes, placed them on one of the large shoe racks and walked into the gym in their socks. Well, perplexed and with little option as I only had one pair of shoes and my socks had rainbows all over them, I placed one blue plastic bag over each shoe and proceeded towards the ladies locker room. During the walk I looked around and no one was wearing the blue shoe bags; I decided they must take them off in the locker room and change shoes in there rather than on the bench. So, now what was I going to do? Simple. Go into the corner of the locker room, cough to muffle the noise of the bags being removed and then proceed to shoving the bags in my locker so no one will notice my dirty tennis shoes. I would like to say that this was a one-time occurrence… I will not admit otherwise. And yes, I do feel guilty when I run on the treadmill and look over to see some chick in her socks on the elliptical as my shoes may very well have soiled that same elliptical machine twenty minutes prior. But come on lady, put some dang shoes on!! I know, I know, it is not very cultural adaptive for me not to adapt. At this point I am just trying to blend in and when I do stumble upon a small fortune, I will visit a store and buy that extra pair of sneakers for the gym. But, until that day, I will just stick to the blue bags and the corner locker

So, in a quick wrap up, as I can’t be bothered to configure a proper conclusion, and it is my blog after all (even though you suckers are reading it) I will finish with this:

Based upon several conversations with my boyfriend about this issue I have concluded that the origin of this shoe fear was not out of hyper-hygienic-sensitivity, but rather out of pure practicality. When living in a place in which a majority of the year, people are fighting to keep their feet dry, it only makes sense that no shoes are worn while inside to keep the house (or whatever other place) dry. In Hawaii they have a similar practice of a “no shoes” rule; but, this is so the sand does not scratch the hardwood floors. A bit depressing to compare, but alas, comparable. So, remember the wisdom I once received on a tour bus, rather than in a classroom, “It is not wrong, it is just different.”

Until next time…

Oktober 3, 2010: Jeg snakker engelsk

Now you try.

It is hard to bring my cyber audience up-to-date since my last post, nearly a year and a half ago. I am willing to bet the vast majority of my 5 to 7 readers are well aware developments of my life since last April. And to be honest, every month that rolls by and event that may be blog-worthy is forever lost due to my slacker attitude. So, in one sentence I will erase all wrong doing of lack of blogging and catch those 1-2 readers who may be out there, somewhere in cyberspace, that need a fill-in. Here goes: finished my Master’s, fell in love, left Australia, backpacked through Southeast Asia, went back Down Under and worked casually in Melbourne, traveled the States with my boyfriend, moved to Norway and life is good . Now that everyone is on the same page and I have removed all of my blog failure guilt, we can start in the present.

October 2010.

I have been living in Norway for two months with my wonderfully supportive boyfriend and I have been on the job hunt. The Internet has been my shotgun, my resume has been my bullets and the job vacancies throughout the Stavanger region are my targets. Unfortunately, I have yet to get my foot in the door for one interview so although I have hit my targets; I have yet to get a “kill”. And after 60+ applications, the hunt can be very tiring. In fact, I am already tired of writing about it. So, until you hear further, I am an unemployed, Master’s diploma holder, English only speaker and a citizen not from an EU country fighting to squeeze my way into the ever competitive job market in which unemployment hovers around 2%. Yes, odds are that guy who plays the accordion in front of H&M has a day job, and until you hear otherwise I do not.

I am currently sitting in my living room watching 5 men in their middle twenties playing a video game. They are laughing, yelling, stuffing their faces with junk food and I can’t seem to put my finger on when exactly they made the transfer from kids to adults…if they even have. But it is nice to have people in the apartment so I will take what I can get.

It has been quite the experience living in a country in which you don’t hear English being spoken (and although Australians don’t often sound as if they are speaking English, they are)! I would say the majority of the people I come across do speak English, minus the elderly, once I say something like, “Hei. Du snakker engelsk? Jeg snakker ikke norsk.” And following this self-declaration of my inability to speak the native language in the country in which I am residing, one of three predictable things happens. 1. They give me a blank stare and walk away; 2. They reply in Norwegian and we try to go from there; 3. They respond in English. Although the third option is normally favorable, option number two has proven to have its benefits as well. For example, last week I had to go to the post office- a simple task. So, I put on my sweater, scarf, newly purchased down feather jacket and wool boots and began my walk to local post office which is located inside a grocery store. Once it was my turn, I handed the lady in her late teens/early twenties my card to mail overseas. From my point of view, the dialogue went something like this:

Me: Hei, jeg snakker engelsk. Kan du hjelp meg? (Hi, I speak English. Can you help me?)

Lady: alskfv djoeir wej lkandv lkdfu (Unintelligible)

Me: Umm… du snakker ikke engelsk? (Umm… you don’t speak English?)

Lady: asldkfjd lskdfioe klsdf (Again, I had no idea what she says here. Also, it should be noted there are three people in line behind me sighing and shuffling their feet.)

Me: I need to mail this to USA.

Lady: Ja. (Yes.)

At this point we understand one another and she weighs the letter and then hands me a stamp and tells me it will be 25 kroner, or roughly $4.00. I go to pay and since I don’t have cash I use a card, which fails, twice. I know I have money but I can’t figure out what the problem is as the machine is also in Norwegian. The man behind me reaches over me and begins to speak to the lady in Norwegian. I think that perhaps this good citizen is going to help sort out the problem and then I see him hand the lady an envelope and realize he has cut me and no, he is not helping me in any way whatsoever.

Me: I don’t know what the problem is and I can’t read the machine.

Lady: slkdff dfa lkjoie. ERLKJREOI NTEOIRE ETREJNRO. REKLKRJE!!!!! Sdfdk lkdfjd. (Did you get that? Me neither.)

I then just stand there for about twenty awkward seconds without saying anything.

Lady: asldkf fjdoi. Go. Ok. It ok. (Something. Go. Ok. It ok.)

Me: No, I want to pay.

Lady: Go. (Smiling and putting the stamp on the card.)Go! Go!

Me: Are you sure? Ok. I will go.

So I left, laughing. I was not sure that she actually put the card in the mail until I was thanked by the recipient.

I realize I can’t go around not speaking Norwegian and getting things for free, but it sure was nice! I recently finished my intensive, seven week Norwegian course that was levels one and two. It has helped me read signs in stores, labels on food, and know how to speak basic Norwegian. Although, as demonstrated at the post office, once I say what I want to say, it does not mean that I will understand the answer I receive. In an effort to further develop my skills I bought Norwegian scrabble, and in a city where a beer will run you $12 it is safe to say this board game felt like more of an investment. I have played it twice and so far am undefeated. (This may or may not be due to the fact that I was allowed to use the dictionary on every turn and would ask for assistance by my opponents, threatening that if I did not receive the maximum number of points available that they would be taking advantage of me and they would have a tainted win.) Despite the enjoying a healthy dose of competition, I am expanding my vocabulary as well.

I can’t promise I will come back and write more, because quite frankly I’m not sure I really have anything that exciting to share with the world. But, I will at least think about blogging more. And who knows, perhaps I will pick it up like a bad habit and then my 5-7 readers will all wish I was a bit less ambitious and that they really don’t care to read about me making a PB&J with green olives

Until next time…