As any expat worth their salt knows, complaining about the high cost of living in Norway is a favorite topic. We relish commiserating about how ridiculously overpriced everything seems, and cries of ‘I could buy ten sofas for the cost of this beer!” ring out from expat homes across Stavanger. However, there is always the slight annoying issue of fact. So today I present you with the latest cost of living indicators so we can really see how bad off we poor expats are… or not.
According to Xpatulater.com, “The cost of living indexes are based on pricing the same basket of goods in local currency and comparing them in US Dollars using exchange rates with New York as the base (New York = 100).” Get your head round that, and come with me…
Oslo used to be the second most expensive city in the world in which to live. Not anymore, peeps! Oslo dropped in the rankings from 2nd in 2008 to 13th in 2009. Why? Because the kroner has weakened against the US dollar, and because cost of living adjustment (COLA) indices are measured with a USD base, so currency fluctuations force locations up and down the rankings accordingly.
COLA is based on an index of 13 different ‘baskets’ of goods. By choosing similar products in each country and grouping them into categories, an ‘apples to apples’ comparison is possible. So let’s see where Norway falls in those baskets.
1. Alcohol & Tobacco: 2 out of 276The good news here is you will probably be too cheap or too poor to be able to afford a heavy drink habit. But do prepare yourself for sticker shock when the nice bartender slides a Guinness across the bar and requests you pay him 70 nok (approx. $11). No, he is not demanding a sum for the entire keg. Alcohol is just crazy expensive here. It has primarily to do with the alcohol laws, but that rant is saved for another time.
2. Clothing costs: 104 out of 276Truth is you can get some decent togs here for a slightly inflated price, but you’re really not that bad off. What I find, though, is I am paying J. Crew prices for Wal-mart quality. Note this and stock up on clothes at home.
3. Communication costs: 19 out of 276
It costs a boatload more for internet and phone calls. However, beat the system by electing for a phone box like Telio and making good use of Skype.
4. Education costs: 109 out of 276
You can live with this. Part of the reason this rank is high is because most expatriates do not take advantage of free public schooling. Sure, you can send your kid to an international school, but prepare to ante up for the annual tuition. One of the international schools here costs more per year than the private university I went to in Texas.
5. Furniture & Appliance: 48 out of 276The furniture here is pricey, but you can get some beautiful pieces. In Stavanger, I recommend Slettvoll, Living, and Helgø Møbler in particular. You can get great mid-priced goods at stores like Skeidar and Bohus. And there’s always Ikea, which comes with the bonus of enjoying an ice cream after paying for your coffee table. Appliances are actually about the same as the US if you get a sale. Check out Lefdal, Elkjøp, and Expert for appliances.*
6. Grocery costs: 19 out of 276
Food is expensive here. The same caprese that cost about $5 in Italy to make is about $10 in ingredients here. Norway has strict import laws on food, with general preference going to local products. The good news is that you can find almost everything you need, but at a cost.
7. Healthcare costs: 86 out of 276
Because the rankings are based on averages of costs from both the public and private sector, I think this figure can be a little misleading. If you take advantage of the public health system, cost is much, much lower than the US. However, private care is also available for some specialties, and this causes the ranking to be a little higher.
8. Household costs (housing, water, electricity, etc): 91 out of 276
Rents are basically in line with many large American cities, but the cost to buy can be a little shocking. However, if you are willing to do some work yourself, you can purchase a gem and spend a little elbow grease on getting it up to snuff. This is the route Husband and I have taken, and it means we can have a home exactly how we want it without the (as) frightening price tag.
9. Miscellaneous costs: 3 out of 276
This includes items like linens and general goods and services such as domestic help, dry cleaning, office supplies, newspapers and magazines, and postage stamps. The cost of some of these items beggars belief. Dry cleaning, for example, is shocking. Don’t expect a 99 cent per shirt special in these parts. Buy some Dryel, lose the housecleaner (or suck up the cost and use the time saved elsewhere - it is what it is).
10. Personal Care costs: 159 out of 276
Your toothpaste and shampoo will not be as expensive here as you think. However, luxury brands are a pretty penny, so stock up on salon goods and expensive makeup at home or at duty-free.
11. Recreation and Culture: 32 out of 276
Husband and I went to the cinema last week and coughed up 95 nok (about $15) per ticket. It makes you a little choosier about the films you see. Wait for the DVD, my friend.
12. Restaurants, Meals Out and Hotel costs: 11 out of 276
One of the sources of my greatest discontent, a meal out is nothing to be taken lightly. Expect to pay fancy prices for Chili’s quality food. There are some great restaurants in Stavanger, but they are dear. This one is a mixed bag for me, as I come from a land where we eat out at least once per day usually. But the cost here means I spend more time socializing at home, which can be equally rewarding without the high price tag. Another one of those 'it is what it is' conundrums.
13. Transport costs: 5 out of 276
My car here in Stavanger cost more than my first flat in Houston. Not because one is exceptionally great or one was exceptionally rubbish. It’s down again to import restrictions. An interesting thing is that the car market here is not terribly varied in price, meaning that a good mid-level model sedan is not that much less than a higher spec car. If the car prices cause a nosebleed, there is always an excellent public transportation system of which you can take advantage.
So that’s the skinny on how COLA breaks down for Norway. I still plan to moan about the high cost of this and that, but at least now I can focus on the things that actually are more expensive, and I can have cause to remember there’s always somewhere where I could be worse off!
_________________________________________________________
* If you can't read Norsk, no worries! You can use Google Translate as a web page reader. Not perfect, but it definitely helps. Just enter the web address and off you go.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Stengt vs. Closed (it's all the same to me!)
Last week I returned home to Stavanger from my summer sojourn in the States (say that three times fast!). After spending some time in a place where I could visit Wal-Mart at 3am (not that I did, but I could have), my memory must’ve fogged over about Norway in… dum dum dum… July.
July in N
orway is like a black hole. You know it exists, it can be scientifically proven, but no one actually knows what happens to things unfortunate enough to fly into it. Some guide books warn you with innocuous little phrases like “Some tourist attractions may have limited hours in the summer months.” Lies, I tell you. Let me give the real deal when it comes to July in Norway.
Everything. shuts. down.
Last week I popped into my office. I was met with the wind whistling through the hallways as there was not a single other person there. Where were they all? Not at work, that’s where. Hey, it’s July!
After a lonely morning at the office, I decided to pop by the fruit and veg market for some dinner provisions. I parked the car, hopped out, and was met with a cheerful handwritten sign informing me that the market is on ‘summer hours’ so closed at 1pm. It was 1.15*. Hey, it’s July!
Growing a little more frustrated, I went home and decided to catch up on personal errands. I called my doctor’s office to make an appointment. Good thing it wasn’t anything pressing as Doc is away until mid-August.** Hey, it’s July!
My iPhone met an untimely death several weeks ago (due in one part to my own techno-stupidity and two parts to the evilness that is Apple). I took it in for repairs in June. June. Did I mention it was June? Repairs couldn’t be made, so I had to order a new phone. I hadn’t heard anything about it, so I rang the shop. “No, not here yet. Maybe a few more weeks.” Hey, it’s July!
The moral of this is that July = stengt. In some ways it’s a great break as long as you plan accordingly and don’t actually need anything beyond the usual groceries and gas. Dive through that stack of books you’ve been meaning to read, attempt to watch all of The West Wing from the beginning (my project of choice this summer), and just kick back and enjoy any good weather that might blow this way.
Hey, it’s July!
____________________________________________________________
* What I actually did in the face of that cheery sign was to let out a little screech and kick the orange crate next to the door in frustration. Too bad I was wearing flip-flops. Karma is, indeed, a cheap tart.
** In the interest of not misrepresenting the Norwegian medical system or Doc’s office, I was offered an alternate appointment with another doctor.
July in N
orway is like a black hole. You know it exists, it can be scientifically proven, but no one actually knows what happens to things unfortunate enough to fly into it. Some guide books warn you with innocuous little phrases like “Some tourist attractions may have limited hours in the summer months.” Lies, I tell you. Let me give the real deal when it comes to July in Norway.Everything. shuts. down.
Last week I popped into my office. I was met with the wind whistling through the hallways as there was not a single other person there. Where were they all? Not at work, that’s where. Hey, it’s July!
After a lonely morning at the office, I decided to pop by the fruit and veg market for some dinner provisions. I parked the car, hopped out, and was met with a cheerful handwritten sign informing me that the market is on ‘summer hours’ so closed at 1pm. It was 1.15*. Hey, it’s July!
Growing a little more frustrated, I went home and decided to catch up on personal errands. I called my doctor’s office to make an appointment. Good thing it wasn’t anything pressing as Doc is away until mid-August.** Hey, it’s July!
My iPhone met an untimely death several weeks ago (due in one part to my own techno-stupidity and two parts to the evilness that is Apple). I took it in for repairs in June. June. Did I mention it was June? Repairs couldn’t be made, so I had to order a new phone. I hadn’t heard anything about it, so I rang the shop. “No, not here yet. Maybe a few more weeks.” Hey, it’s July!
The moral of this is that July = stengt. In some ways it’s a great break as long as you plan accordingly and don’t actually need anything beyond the usual groceries and gas. Dive through that stack of books you’ve been meaning to read, attempt to watch all of The West Wing from the beginning (my project of choice this summer), and just kick back and enjoy any good weather that might blow this way.
Hey, it’s July!
____________________________________________________________
* What I actually did in the face of that cheery sign was to let out a little screech and kick the orange crate next to the door in frustration. Too bad I was wearing flip-flops. Karma is, indeed, a cheap tart.
** In the interest of not misrepresenting the Norwegian medical system or Doc’s office, I was offered an alternate appointment with another doctor.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
I can talk about my momma vs. You can't
You know how it’s okay for you to slag off your family, friends, partner, whatever, but woe to anyone who tries to do the same in your presence? I can talk about MY momma – but YOU can’t. Well, apparently I have unknowingly added Norway to this list of tetchy subjects, and I’m not certain how I feel about it.
One of the loveliest expats here in town had Husband and me over for dinner this week. Also on the guest list was Young Expat Couple who have been in Stavanger for less than a year. We exchanged the sort of pleasantries of people who don’t intend to embark on a relationship longer than the time dessert takes to be served. It was all going along swimmingly, until chat turned into the inevitable expat sport of talking about the bad things about living in Norway.
Talking about the bad is one of the top discussion topics for many expatriate gatherings. It’s also one of the reasons many cultural experts advise against integrating yourself too deeply in the expat community as negativity breeds negativity, and that can be a hard pill to swallow when you are already mired in your own tepid bath of culture shock.
Saying that, though, doesn’t mean I am above it. I like to wallow in my own critical perceptions of Norwegian customer service, driving ability, and taxes as much as the next utlendinger. However, I usually reserve this talk only for those I am closest to, as they know it is more me blowing off steam than passing judgment on the place I voluntarily choose to make my home.
So when the usual talk of salaries and inconvenience and lacking social interaction arose, I wasn’t surprised. But this time was different - I couldn't commiserate. The more they talked about the things that bothered them, the more argumentative I became about their inability to see the positive. The bottom line is that I don’t really care if they like Norway, and I am equally certain they don’t really care if I care. But I felt a rising anger in me. ‘Don’t talk about MY Norway!’
The worst part is I agreed with a lot of what they said. I think we have very different perspectives based on age and experience, but I could still hear myself in some of their complaints. But logic and understanding did not prevail on my part. I just felt annoyed. Annoyed they couldn’t or wouldn’t see the benefits to life here and instead focused on things that were, in my estimation, quite minor or quite easily sorted. I knew I had crossed the line when I eyed up the Him of Young Couple and said ‘I hope what I am about to say doesn’t offend you, but…’ * and proceeded to rant on about consumerism and quality of life and a whole bunch of other malarkey I can’t even remember.
I went to bed thinking about why it bothered me so much (both the topic of conversation and my reaction to it). I think it was that people pointing out the negative about living here challenges my own decision to choose to make this place my home and not somewhere else. Again, it’s one of the times I was an us and a them all at once. An us expat, but with some of the trappings of a them Norwegian. I will never really be Norwegian, a them, nor do I particularly want to be, but I hold a fondness for the place that has given me so much opportunity. I guess this means I fall somewhere in the middle, sympathetic to both groups but not completely loyal to either.
I also think much of it has to do with how long I have lived here and the fact I am here solely of my own choosing and not because of an expatriate work assignment. I am in my fourth year of residence with no imminent plans to live anywhere else. My life and friends and work and home are here. And to hear a relative newcomer berate MY Norway was to hear them berate MY life. I recognize this wasn’t anyone’s intention (and it gives the impression that I believe these strangers had nothing better to do than poke at my life choices – even I am not that self-absorbed). But to listen to the bad makes me want to shout louder for the good. Not because I am not aware the bad is there, but because I have to live focused on the good. Because this is MY Norway.
Whatever it was, I think I need to take a step back and remember that what’s right for me about living in Norway may be exactly what’s wrong for someone else. Otherwise I might not be invited to any more dinner parties!
__________________________________________________________
* Husband, who is sometimes too wise for his own good, pointed this out to me as soon as we were out the door. He knows it is one of my pet peeves when someone says that, as when someone says they don’t want to offend you, man, you can rest assured that they do. (Husband also told me I was getting surly when I drink. This was worrisome as I had only one cocktail in the four hours we were there. Imagine what I would be like on a bender if drink were the culprit for my bad manners.)
One of the loveliest expats here in town had Husband and me over for dinner this week. Also on the guest list was Young Expat Couple who have been in Stavanger for less than a year. We exchanged the sort of pleasantries of people who don’t intend to embark on a relationship longer than the time dessert takes to be served. It was all going along swimmingly, until chat turned into the inevitable expat sport of talking about the bad things about living in Norway.
Talking about the bad is one of the top discussion topics for many expatriate gatherings. It’s also one of the reasons many cultural experts advise against integrating yourself too deeply in the expat community as negativity breeds negativity, and that can be a hard pill to swallow when you are already mired in your own tepid bath of culture shock.
Saying that, though, doesn’t mean I am above it. I like to wallow in my own critical perceptions of Norwegian customer service, driving ability, and taxes as much as the next utlendinger. However, I usually reserve this talk only for those I am closest to, as they know it is more me blowing off steam than passing judgment on the place I voluntarily choose to make my home.
So when the usual talk of salaries and inconvenience and lacking social interaction arose, I wasn’t surprised. But this time was different - I couldn't commiserate. The more they talked about the things that bothered them, the more argumentative I became about their inability to see the positive. The bottom line is that I don’t really care if they like Norway, and I am equally certain they don’t really care if I care. But I felt a rising anger in me. ‘Don’t talk about MY Norway!’
The worst part is I agreed with a lot of what they said. I think we have very different perspectives based on age and experience, but I could still hear myself in some of their complaints. But logic and understanding did not prevail on my part. I just felt annoyed. Annoyed they couldn’t or wouldn’t see the benefits to life here and instead focused on things that were, in my estimation, quite minor or quite easily sorted. I knew I had crossed the line when I eyed up the Him of Young Couple and said ‘I hope what I am about to say doesn’t offend you, but…’ * and proceeded to rant on about consumerism and quality of life and a whole bunch of other malarkey I can’t even remember.
I went to bed thinking about why it bothered me so much (both the topic of conversation and my reaction to it). I think it was that people pointing out the negative about living here challenges my own decision to choose to make this place my home and not somewhere else. Again, it’s one of the times I was an us and a them all at once. An us expat, but with some of the trappings of a them Norwegian. I will never really be Norwegian, a them, nor do I particularly want to be, but I hold a fondness for the place that has given me so much opportunity. I guess this means I fall somewhere in the middle, sympathetic to both groups but not completely loyal to either.
I also think much of it has to do with how long I have lived here and the fact I am here solely of my own choosing and not because of an expatriate work assignment. I am in my fourth year of residence with no imminent plans to live anywhere else. My life and friends and work and home are here. And to hear a relative newcomer berate MY Norway was to hear them berate MY life. I recognize this wasn’t anyone’s intention (and it gives the impression that I believe these strangers had nothing better to do than poke at my life choices – even I am not that self-absorbed). But to listen to the bad makes me want to shout louder for the good. Not because I am not aware the bad is there, but because I have to live focused on the good. Because this is MY Norway.
Whatever it was, I think I need to take a step back and remember that what’s right for me about living in Norway may be exactly what’s wrong for someone else. Otherwise I might not be invited to any more dinner parties!
__________________________________________________________
* Husband, who is sometimes too wise for his own good, pointed this out to me as soon as we were out the door. He knows it is one of my pet peeves when someone says that, as when someone says they don’t want to offend you, man, you can rest assured that they do. (Husband also told me I was getting surly when I drink. This was worrisome as I had only one cocktail in the four hours we were there. Imagine what I would be like on a bender if drink were the culprit for my bad manners.)
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Me & Him
Last week Husband and I celebrated our three-year wedding anniversary. And I'm smug about it. Not in a Bridget Jones 'smug marrieds' kind of way. But in a 'no one thought we'd last three months, let alone three years' way.
Husband and I met in August. We got engaged in October. And married the following July. All after having spent a sum total of about 5 weeks in each other's company. After we got engaged, we started the round of excited phone calls to friends and family. The range of responses we got was this:
When you're in the first flush of new love, you overlook a lot of things... or you simply don't worry about them because you trust that Captain & Tenille were right that love would keep you together. Turns out Tina Turner had the wiser advice - sometimes love just ain't enough. And I say, hand on heart, fresh from a wedding anniversary, that Tina was spot on. Love isn't enough.
That's not to say I don't love Husband. I do. A lot. More than I have ever loved anyone else.. or more than I have loved the everyone else's all rolled into one. I won't gush, but suffice to say he is a warm and gentle genius with a wicked sense of humor who isn't afraid of hard work. And he's pretty cute, too. But love isn't what got us to the three year mark. It was a conscious decision on a daily basis to stay together, no matter what.
If I'm being honest. I share the surprise of the aforementioned friends and family that we made it this long. Frankly, I am surprised we made it past the first year. It was touch and go some days. A lot of this had to do with the fact that, although I was perfectly aware I would be moving to Norway when we got married, I didn't think about what that reality would look like when I said my vows.
For the first 12 months of our married lives, every argument would either begin or end with me hissing "And I am only in this PLACE because of YOU!" And poor Husband would just look at me helplessly because he knew it was the truth. But you know what? It wasn't.
When I married Husband, I wasn't just marrying another person, another family. I was marrying another life. And while perhaps I should or could have considered how this other life was going to fare with me on board, I made the conscious decision to pack my wordly goods, put them on a boat, and wing my way to Stavanger courtesy of KLM. I came to Norway because I made a decision to come to Norway. And I made that decision because I fell in love with someone who was already here. So I wasn't in this place because of Husband. I was in this place because of ME.
That realization was a bitter pill to swallow at first because it meant having to own up to being the captain of my own ship, master of my own destiny, blah blah blah. It meant I had to get off the couch and make a life for myself... and that is no mere weekend project! It also meant that I couldn't hurl that accusation around anymore, because it was only hurting the one person who was my partner in crime in my new life. I had to pull up my bootstraps and start living this other life.
So I made some new friends, both local and expat, I got a job that I liked, and I started leaving the house (the length of that sentence belies the amount of time all those things actually took me to do). I learned a smattering of Norsk, and I quit focusing on everything that was wrong and started reminding myself of what was right. And it worked. With a bad year one behind us, there was nowhere to go but up. And we have, year after year. I look forward to future anniversaries - not just as a celebration of our wedding day, but as an annual reminder of celebrating the choices we make in life.
I don't think I ever apologized to Husband for "I'm only in this PLACE because of YOU!" And I won't now either, because I will probably just say it again at some point, thus rendering the apology meaningless. But instead, I guess I should tell him this: "If I'm only in this place because of you, then thank you for giving me the opportunity to have a life better than anything I could have imagined."
Husband and I met in August. We got engaged in October. And married the following July. All after having spent a sum total of about 5 weeks in each other's company. After we got engaged, we started the round of excited phone calls to friends and family. The range of responses we got was this:
- "I hadn't realized you were dating anyone."
- "And you said her name was.. what, again?"
- "This is...sudden."
- "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
- "Have you lost your @!%&! mind???
When you're in the first flush of new love, you overlook a lot of things... or you simply don't worry about them because you trust that Captain & Tenille were right that love would keep you together. Turns out Tina Turner had the wiser advice - sometimes love just ain't enough. And I say, hand on heart, fresh from a wedding anniversary, that Tina was spot on. Love isn't enough.
That's not to say I don't love Husband. I do. A lot. More than I have ever loved anyone else.. or more than I have loved the everyone else's all rolled into one. I won't gush, but suffice to say he is a warm and gentle genius with a wicked sense of humor who isn't afraid of hard work. And he's pretty cute, too. But love isn't what got us to the three year mark. It was a conscious decision on a daily basis to stay together, no matter what.
If I'm being honest. I share the surprise of the aforementioned friends and family that we made it this long. Frankly, I am surprised we made it past the first year. It was touch and go some days. A lot of this had to do with the fact that, although I was perfectly aware I would be moving to Norway when we got married, I didn't think about what that reality would look like when I said my vows.
For the first 12 months of our married lives, every argument would either begin or end with me hissing "And I am only in this PLACE because of YOU!" And poor Husband would just look at me helplessly because he knew it was the truth. But you know what? It wasn't.
When I married Husband, I wasn't just marrying another person, another family. I was marrying another life. And while perhaps I should or could have considered how this other life was going to fare with me on board, I made the conscious decision to pack my wordly goods, put them on a boat, and wing my way to Stavanger courtesy of KLM. I came to Norway because I made a decision to come to Norway. And I made that decision because I fell in love with someone who was already here. So I wasn't in this place because of Husband. I was in this place because of ME.
That realization was a bitter pill to swallow at first because it meant having to own up to being the captain of my own ship, master of my own destiny, blah blah blah. It meant I had to get off the couch and make a life for myself... and that is no mere weekend project! It also meant that I couldn't hurl that accusation around anymore, because it was only hurting the one person who was my partner in crime in my new life. I had to pull up my bootstraps and start living this other life.
So I made some new friends, both local and expat, I got a job that I liked, and I started leaving the house (the length of that sentence belies the amount of time all those things actually took me to do). I learned a smattering of Norsk, and I quit focusing on everything that was wrong and started reminding myself of what was right. And it worked. With a bad year one behind us, there was nowhere to go but up. And we have, year after year. I look forward to future anniversaries - not just as a celebration of our wedding day, but as an annual reminder of celebrating the choices we make in life.
I don't think I ever apologized to Husband for "I'm only in this PLACE because of YOU!" And I won't now either, because I will probably just say it again at some point, thus rendering the apology meaningless. But instead, I guess I should tell him this: "If I'm only in this place because of you, then thank you for giving me the opportunity to have a life better than anything I could have imagined."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Choices vs. lack thereof
This week I am on a whistle stop tour of the US to visit friends and family and to stock up on all the consumer goods I miss from the States. I spend most of my time visiting and eating and shopping - literally gorging myself on company and consumables until I can’t see straight.
I love a good shop, me. But since I have been living away from the US, every time I return for a supermarket sweep, I am left with a sense of emptiness. To be more precise, my suitcases are full and my wallet less so, but there has been a strange shift for me when revisiting the United States of Shopping. I feel like there is too. much. choice.
Don’t get me wrong – I like to sort through 22 fits and 17 colors of a pair of jeans at the mall. At least I used to. Now, though, the thought of shopping fills me with a sense of anxiety and dread. When I go to Houston, I usually only stay three or four days before moving on to somewhere else. Because I know where the shops are in H-town, I do a mad circular dash from the Galleria to Target to the outlet malls to Central Market, frantically shoving things into shopping bags until I want to slit my wrists with a credit card. There’s too many colors, sizes, fits, washes, fabrics. Just too much everything. Ten years ago this cornucopia of ‘too much’ would’ve been music to my ears. Today it is just sensory overload. How did this happen?
According to psychology professor Barry Schwartz in his book The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less, choice and satisfaction are inversely related. The more choice you have, the less satisfied you are. This seemed counter-intuitive to me, but after some reflection, I think I get what Schwartz is on about.
Let’s say on my bi-annual Target run I am stocking up on dryer sheets (Seriously, I do. They’re cheap and easy to pack and good for a multitude of things). If I have 20 choices of dryer sheets (There really are that many.. at least!), I have 20 opportunities to feel I picked the lesser option. I can have mountain fresh scent OR I can have easy iron. But I can’t have both. Now I WANT both, so I am dissatisfied with each individual option. This cycle repeats until I have exhausted the 18 other options and am left, broken and teary in the aisle of Target, wishing I hadn’t selected the onerous task of choosing dryer sheets.
In Norway it’s a different story. I go to one of the only two stores that even sell dyer sheets, I walk to the aisle where the dryer sheets live, and I pluck a box and put it in my basket. Done and dusted with no drama or gnashing of teeth. I don’t know what super fancy options my dryer sheets possess, but it doesn’t matter as it’s the only option I have. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that I wouldn’t like a little MORE choice in Norway sometimes, but the lack thereof makes my life a hell of a lot simpler. It leaves me space to focus on the choices that do matter and less on the ones that just don’t.
I’m certain this seems melodramatic, but for anyone who's ever lived for an extended time away from home, you might be able to relate to what I'm talking about. Most expatriates complain about the lack of choice in Norway – they do this in the same tone of voice as discussing a dirty hotel room or a less than gracious dinner guest. But I think this lack of choice is something that should be embraced (mainly because, let’s face it, there’s sod all you can do about it).
If I don’t have 6,000 choices of where to go to dinner (fact check it – that’s how many eating holes there are in Houston!), then I worry less about picking a place and instead focus on enjoying the company I keep while I gnosh away. If I don’t have 1,428 choices for body lotion (the number of options you find on drugstore.com), then I choose one of the 10 options I do have, slather myself up, and get on with life.
None of this is to say I am overly enlightened. I still like to have a good moan about all the things I can’t buy in Norway as well as the lack of options when I do have to make a purchase. But it does mean that, after living in Europe for almost a decade, I realize there is not one single consumer good I can’t live without.
That all being said, I will still participate in the twice-a-year shopfest when I go to the US. But on a day-to-day basis back home in Norway, I will secretly relish that I can reserve my decision-making skills for more substantiative things. Like when to go back to Houston for more shopping.
I love a good shop, me. But since I have been living away from the US, every time I return for a supermarket sweep, I am left with a sense of emptiness. To be more precise, my suitcases are full and my wallet less so, but there has been a strange shift for me when revisiting the United States of Shopping. I feel like there is too. much. choice.
Don’t get me wrong – I like to sort through 22 fits and 17 colors of a pair of jeans at the mall. At least I used to. Now, though, the thought of shopping fills me with a sense of anxiety and dread. When I go to Houston, I usually only stay three or four days before moving on to somewhere else. Because I know where the shops are in H-town, I do a mad circular dash from the Galleria to Target to the outlet malls to Central Market, frantically shoving things into shopping bags until I want to slit my wrists with a credit card. There’s too many colors, sizes, fits, washes, fabrics. Just too much everything. Ten years ago this cornucopia of ‘too much’ would’ve been music to my ears. Today it is just sensory overload. How did this happen?
According to psychology professor Barry Schwartz in his book The Paradox of Choice: Why More is Less, choice and satisfaction are inversely related. The more choice you have, the less satisfied you are. This seemed counter-intuitive to me, but after some reflection, I think I get what Schwartz is on about.
Let’s say on my bi-annual Target run I am stocking up on dryer sheets (Seriously, I do. They’re cheap and easy to pack and good for a multitude of things). If I have 20 choices of dryer sheets (There really are that many.. at least!), I have 20 opportunities to feel I picked the lesser option. I can have mountain fresh scent OR I can have easy iron. But I can’t have both. Now I WANT both, so I am dissatisfied with each individual option. This cycle repeats until I have exhausted the 18 other options and am left, broken and teary in the aisle of Target, wishing I hadn’t selected the onerous task of choosing dryer sheets.
In Norway it’s a different story. I go to one of the only two stores that even sell dyer sheets, I walk to the aisle where the dryer sheets live, and I pluck a box and put it in my basket. Done and dusted with no drama or gnashing of teeth. I don’t know what super fancy options my dryer sheets possess, but it doesn’t matter as it’s the only option I have. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that I wouldn’t like a little MORE choice in Norway sometimes, but the lack thereof makes my life a hell of a lot simpler. It leaves me space to focus on the choices that do matter and less on the ones that just don’t.
I’m certain this seems melodramatic, but for anyone who's ever lived for an extended time away from home, you might be able to relate to what I'm talking about. Most expatriates complain about the lack of choice in Norway – they do this in the same tone of voice as discussing a dirty hotel room or a less than gracious dinner guest. But I think this lack of choice is something that should be embraced (mainly because, let’s face it, there’s sod all you can do about it).
If I don’t have 6,000 choices of where to go to dinner (fact check it – that’s how many eating holes there are in Houston!), then I worry less about picking a place and instead focus on enjoying the company I keep while I gnosh away. If I don’t have 1,428 choices for body lotion (the number of options you find on drugstore.com), then I choose one of the 10 options I do have, slather myself up, and get on with life.
None of this is to say I am overly enlightened. I still like to have a good moan about all the things I can’t buy in Norway as well as the lack of options when I do have to make a purchase. But it does mean that, after living in Europe for almost a decade, I realize there is not one single consumer good I can’t live without.
That all being said, I will still participate in the twice-a-year shopfest when I go to the US. But on a day-to-day basis back home in Norway, I will secretly relish that I can reserve my decision-making skills for more substantiative things. Like when to go back to Houston for more shopping.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Technophile vs. Technophobe
I can remember the day clearly. It was December of 1995, the end of my first semester of college. I had saved my pennies from my minimum wage gig and raced to the Compaq Outlet. I laid down my cash for the fanciest PC I could afford (which , in retrospect, probably had less memory than my mobile phone does now), carted it home, and plugged it in. Within minutes (really it was more like hours, but I am remembering myself as more skilled than I likely was), I had the free AOL CD installed, and I had registered for a screen name. It was so early in the AOL game that my name consisted only of four letters ('jeel', for the sake of trivia). After a little roaring and spluttering, the modem connected and I was on the net for the first time I can actually recall. I felt like a WIZARD! From that moment until about six or seven years ago, I was a technophile. I felt I had a good grasp on what was happening in the world of computers.
Now I am like a slightly outdated older aunt when it comes to technology. It's funny to hear her talk about the good ol' days at the family reunion, but you pity her a little bit for living in the past. I have become a technophobe.
I marvel at my students and friends and their lofty-sounding discussions of tweeting and blogging and linking up the micronet IP to the submask of jumping jehosaphat (at least that's what I think they're saying). So I decided I was no longer going to sit on the information highway and watch the megabytes whiz by. My new project was to get technophiled again.
So far the results are mixed.
After much goading, I created a Facebook account. I was pretty convinced that FB was only for twelve year old girls and that anyone over this age was just a saddo. I'm not sure my opinion has necessarily changed after a year of use, but the good news is that all the saddos I want to keep up with are on there as well. I find great delight in connecting with my past (and my present) via photos, messages and status updates. For expatriates in particular, having a link to your former existence is comforting as no one is ever more than a 'post comment' away.
Facebook: 8/10
I bought an iPhone and downloaded every application that looked even remotely interesting. I use approximately three of the 72 apps I downloaded (and how I wish that was an exaggerated figure - those 99 cents add up after a while). I do find great joy in Flight Control, which I only recommend if you have plenty of free time and a masochistic need to play 'just one more game, honestly!'. So far the iPhone is used for texts and peeking at Facebook and the odd phone call. I suspect the iPhone could actually tie my shoes and take out the trash, but it just seems like a big investment to learn much more about it.
iPhone: 7/10
I joined Twitter and even installed Tweetie on my iPhone. While I find blogging slightly self-indulgent, I find Twitter downright obnoxious. I guess I wasn't born with the innate need to update the world on my 140-character exploits at every moment of the day. Nor do I really want to read anyone else's. I think Twitter is causing us to miss out on the experience because we're too busy trying to (t)whittle it down to witty text bytes. However, I persevere as I think this is a game-changing technology. Those in oppression and under restriction can use Twitter to speak to the outside world. I want to like Twitter as I see social benefit, but so far I can't quite get my head round it enough to be completely sold.
Twitter: 4/10
And now here I am with Blog. Blog and I have gotten off to a shaky start. I have something to say, and Blog lets me. But Blog is like a needy new boyfriend - he wants more than I am ready to give at this stage in our relationship. He wants me to install meta-tags and enable tracking statistics and format html. These are all things I have no knowledge of and little desire to perform. I feel like the Grumpy Old Man from the Dana Carvey SNL skit: "I'm old and I'm not happy. Everything today is improved and I don't like it. Back in my day, there was no 'comment moderation'. There was no 'edit post'. There was no 'insert link.'. That's the way it was and we LIKED it!" Ignorance is certainly blissful, but I don't want to get left behind, so I will continue poring over the help pages like they are a trashy romance novel.
Blog: TBD/10
I am sure the fact that these four tools are my idea of opening my techno-mind will give a giggle to some of the more progressives out there. But it's a start, and you've got to get in the game to play it. So I'm here, error messages and all.
Now I am like a slightly outdated older aunt when it comes to technology. It's funny to hear her talk about the good ol' days at the family reunion, but you pity her a little bit for living in the past. I have become a technophobe.
I marvel at my students and friends and their lofty-sounding discussions of tweeting and blogging and linking up the micronet IP to the submask of jumping jehosaphat (at least that's what I think they're saying). So I decided I was no longer going to sit on the information highway and watch the megabytes whiz by. My new project was to get technophiled again.
So far the results are mixed.
After much goading, I created a Facebook account. I was pretty convinced that FB was only for twelve year old girls and that anyone over this age was just a saddo. I'm not sure my opinion has necessarily changed after a year of use, but the good news is that all the saddos I want to keep up with are on there as well. I find great delight in connecting with my past (and my present) via photos, messages and status updates. For expatriates in particular, having a link to your former existence is comforting as no one is ever more than a 'post comment' away.
Facebook: 8/10
I bought an iPhone and downloaded every application that looked even remotely interesting. I use approximately three of the 72 apps I downloaded (and how I wish that was an exaggerated figure - those 99 cents add up after a while). I do find great joy in Flight Control, which I only recommend if you have plenty of free time and a masochistic need to play 'just one more game, honestly!'. So far the iPhone is used for texts and peeking at Facebook and the odd phone call. I suspect the iPhone could actually tie my shoes and take out the trash, but it just seems like a big investment to learn much more about it.
iPhone: 7/10
I joined Twitter and even installed Tweetie on my iPhone. While I find blogging slightly self-indulgent, I find Twitter downright obnoxious. I guess I wasn't born with the innate need to update the world on my 140-character exploits at every moment of the day. Nor do I really want to read anyone else's. I think Twitter is causing us to miss out on the experience because we're too busy trying to (t)whittle it down to witty text bytes. However, I persevere as I think this is a game-changing technology. Those in oppression and under restriction can use Twitter to speak to the outside world. I want to like Twitter as I see social benefit, but so far I can't quite get my head round it enough to be completely sold.
Twitter: 4/10
And now here I am with Blog. Blog and I have gotten off to a shaky start. I have something to say, and Blog lets me. But Blog is like a needy new boyfriend - he wants more than I am ready to give at this stage in our relationship. He wants me to install meta-tags and enable tracking statistics and format html. These are all things I have no knowledge of and little desire to perform. I feel like the Grumpy Old Man from the Dana Carvey SNL skit: "I'm old and I'm not happy. Everything today is improved and I don't like it. Back in my day, there was no 'comment moderation'. There was no 'edit post'. There was no 'insert link.'. That's the way it was and we LIKED it!" Ignorance is certainly blissful, but I don't want to get left behind, so I will continue poring over the help pages like they are a trashy romance novel.
Blog: TBD/10
I am sure the fact that these four tools are my idea of opening my techno-mind will give a giggle to some of the more progressives out there. But it's a start, and you've got to get in the game to play it. So I'm here, error messages and all.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Texans vs. everybody else
I'm from Texas.
I usually tell people I'm from Houston because that's a lot easier than explaining that I moved around a lot as a kid - from deep west Texas to the Hill Country to just north of Houston, then finally to Houston when I was 17. 'Just north of Houston' is now really just one stucco shopping center from downtown H-town, and both places share the unfortunate characteristic of I-45 unceremoniously shooting through the middle, but JNOH was a different world when I left there almost 15 years ago. It was a place where we rode horses after school, religiously watched high school football every Friday night, and wore boots and jeans as normal daytime attire (and not in an ironic way!).
It would surprise people that know the current version of me that I still have my kangaroo leather boots tucked away somewhere as it seemed sacrilegious to throw them out despite the fact I am unlikely to ever wear them again. I spent summers tubing down the Frio and Guadalupe, snapped photos in bluebonnet fields, knew all the words to 'Texas, Our Texas' (Knew? Ha - STILL know!), and thought I would marry a lawyer (or some other equally gray-area professional) from a small town but a big ranch who wore his Stetson to the office.* I was a card-carrying member of the Young Conservatives of Texas, went fishing on the weekends, and felt a trip to South Padre was the be-all-end-all of spring break nirvana. Man, I WAS Texas.
But now...
Now, I live in Norway. And this after spending a good deal of my 20's living first in Scotland. Now, in some ways I am less Texan than I have ever been. But I still want to be. Now I worry that my kids (the ones I don't even have yet) will never know the kind of childhood and experiences that I was raised on. I lament that they will never have a high school letterman jacket, or will go to prom, or will learn to two-step. They *could* do all those things to some extent living in Europe. But they would be contrived and not organic experiences. They would be the exception and not the norm.
When I visit Texas now (which I try and do two or three times a year), I'm a them. I recognize the surface, but I just can't seem to do anything more than poke at what's underneath. I can't identify with the politics, understand the pace of life, or bear the painfully extreme weather (by extreme I mean either really hot or really rainy - there doesn't seem to be an in-between). It's like visiting a place I've never known but read about once in a book.
When people in Europe ask me where I'm from, I proudly tell them 'Texas'. Oddly, I never say American - always just Texan. But more often than not I am met with the response of 'Oh. You don't sound like you're from Texas!' So to the them's, I don't fit the picture of what someone from Texas is supposed to be like. This causes an almost resentment on my part. I am an US, dammit! But because I don't draaaawl my vowels and say y'all and howdy, I've lost that covetable status.
I know why it happened, and it was my choice. When I moved to Scotland in my early 20's, my accent was a source of feeling different. While some Scots poked a little fun at it, it was never in a malicious way, but in a way that made you feel like a them. As a new university lecturer and first time expatriate, it was hard to bear any extra ridicule, so I adapted. George Bush had just been elected, and, at least in Europe, sounding like Dubya wasn't getting you very far in life. So I flattened the accent and threw out the colloquialisms. I left one us behind for another. Now that I've been lecturing almost a decade, I kind of wish I hadn't. I wish I would've had more guts to be true to my us's.
Living in another country sometimes makes you think harder about what you aren't than what you are. Here in Norway, I am *not* Norwegian. But, somehow, in my not-Norwegian-ness, I forgot how to be what I am - or, at least, what I used to be. Now it's just a label for me - a way to geographically describe my roots. In terms of Texas, I'm an us and a them all at the same time. Just depends on who's askin', y'all.
___________________________________________________________
* This news greatly disturbed Husband, who is painfully English and wasn't even certain what a Stetson was. I told him this as we were watching 'No Country for Old Men' and Woody Harrelson's character appeared on screen. If you've seen the film, you know he is not the most savory of sorts, so I think it worried Husband that this was my teenage impression of my future beau.
I usually tell people I'm from Houston because that's a lot easier than explaining that I moved around a lot as a kid - from deep west Texas to the Hill Country to just north of Houston, then finally to Houston when I was 17. 'Just north of Houston' is now really just one stucco shopping center from downtown H-town, and both places share the unfortunate characteristic of I-45 unceremoniously shooting through the middle, but JNOH was a different world when I left there almost 15 years ago. It was a place where we rode horses after school, religiously watched high school football every Friday night, and wore boots and jeans as normal daytime attire (and not in an ironic way!).
It would surprise people that know the current version of me that I still have my kangaroo leather boots tucked away somewhere as it seemed sacrilegious to throw them out despite the fact I am unlikely to ever wear them again. I spent summers tubing down the Frio and Guadalupe, snapped photos in bluebonnet fields, knew all the words to 'Texas, Our Texas' (Knew? Ha - STILL know!), and thought I would marry a lawyer (or some other equally gray-area professional) from a small town but a big ranch who wore his Stetson to the office.* I was a card-carrying member of the Young Conservatives of Texas, went fishing on the weekends, and felt a trip to South Padre was the be-all-end-all of spring break nirvana. Man, I WAS Texas.
But now...
Now, I live in Norway. And this after spending a good deal of my 20's living first in Scotland. Now, in some ways I am less Texan than I have ever been. But I still want to be. Now I worry that my kids (the ones I don't even have yet) will never know the kind of childhood and experiences that I was raised on. I lament that they will never have a high school letterman jacket, or will go to prom, or will learn to two-step. They *could* do all those things to some extent living in Europe. But they would be contrived and not organic experiences. They would be the exception and not the norm.
When I visit Texas now (which I try and do two or three times a year), I'm a them. I recognize the surface, but I just can't seem to do anything more than poke at what's underneath. I can't identify with the politics, understand the pace of life, or bear the painfully extreme weather (by extreme I mean either really hot or really rainy - there doesn't seem to be an in-between). It's like visiting a place I've never known but read about once in a book.
When people in Europe ask me where I'm from, I proudly tell them 'Texas'. Oddly, I never say American - always just Texan. But more often than not I am met with the response of 'Oh. You don't sound like you're from Texas!' So to the them's, I don't fit the picture of what someone from Texas is supposed to be like. This causes an almost resentment on my part. I am an US, dammit! But because I don't draaaawl my vowels and say y'all and howdy, I've lost that covetable status.
I know why it happened, and it was my choice. When I moved to Scotland in my early 20's, my accent was a source of feeling different. While some Scots poked a little fun at it, it was never in a malicious way, but in a way that made you feel like a them. As a new university lecturer and first time expatriate, it was hard to bear any extra ridicule, so I adapted. George Bush had just been elected, and, at least in Europe, sounding like Dubya wasn't getting you very far in life. So I flattened the accent and threw out the colloquialisms. I left one us behind for another. Now that I've been lecturing almost a decade, I kind of wish I hadn't. I wish I would've had more guts to be true to my us's.
Living in another country sometimes makes you think harder about what you aren't than what you are. Here in Norway, I am *not* Norwegian. But, somehow, in my not-Norwegian-ness, I forgot how to be what I am - or, at least, what I used to be. Now it's just a label for me - a way to geographically describe my roots. In terms of Texas, I'm an us and a them all at the same time. Just depends on who's askin', y'all.
___________________________________________________________
* This news greatly disturbed Husband, who is painfully English and wasn't even certain what a Stetson was. I told him this as we were watching 'No Country for Old Men' and Woody Harrelson's character appeared on screen. If you've seen the film, you know he is not the most savory of sorts, so I think it worried Husband that this was my teenage impression of my future beau.
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