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My adventures in drunken Norway...Mar 02 '05 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Poor Linda... I'm 18. Old enough to drink beer in my native country, but not in my country of residence. Thank god I was in Norway this winter, and not this dredge of a state known as Utah. This winter, I decided to take a two month trip to Norway. This trip, which was booked two days in advance (thank you, PriceLine), was motivated mostly by the ever-painful break-up with my girlfriend, and the less important reason: family. Both situations can only be solved by getting drunk. Which I did. I landed in Norway in the middle of November, more than a month before I started partying. I was still on the thought pattern that breaking up with my girlfriend of the last calendar year was probably the dumbest thing I had ever done, and needed some serious mind-numbing sedatives to get away from the fact she started having sex with a dirty, promiscuous goth-punk with a lip piercing and a marked adversion to showering less than a week after I broke up with her for making out with said goth punk at a concert in an alcohol-induced haze. Some people would think it was a good thing. But maybe I should have looked the other way as I did the first three times she did it. Again, some people are yelling "GOOD FOR YOU" at their screens, but I was really in love with the girl, and I really needed to get drunk... Dealing with my family is an adventure, overbearing as they are. My grandmother is a strange mix of a kindly old woman with osteoporosis and a crazy, gossip-mouthed baker from hell. She bakes 30 different kinds of cakes and cookies for Christmas. THIRTY! I gained 30 pounds by Christmas, and an extra twenty before I stumbled back to the U.S. in mid-January. I have since dropped 40. But anyway, she's the tip of the iceberg. My grandfather, once a farmer and (right-wing) politician is now a semi-vegetable, due to the several severe strokes he had in the mid-nineties. Don't get me wrong, he's still coherent, but a shell of what I remember from early life. My uncle Paul is crazy. Simple as that. My uncle Torgeir is a loud, round, raucous man who works as an ICU Nurse by day and a bus-driver by night. If handled correctly, this family could be fun. But they're not. They're just bitter people. And I stayed with them for my own therapy from reason number one, listed above. My particular place of residence was the equivalent of the American South. We who hail from that region are loud, we speak in an incoherent dialect, we like drinking, we like cars (all except for me), and, up until the mid-nineties, we all sported mullets and Highway-Patrol mustaches. Parties in Norway are a strange thing. They're all publicly arranged, and feature coffee, beer, wine, and hot-dogs. They are a strange mix of loud people, home-made moonshine, drunken-ness and atrocious music. In other words, they're really fun if you're drunk. Party season in Winter starts on the Second day of Christmas, popularly called "Boxing Day" in Britain, and lasts until after New Years. Now, I had a light party-load. I went to three, something that, combined, probably cost me a total of $120 for the liquor, coffee, beer and cigarettes. Party Number One The first one I went to was the one on Christmas day the 2nd, or the 27th of December. It happened to be held in the local town meeting-house, and probably involved a total of about 100-120 people. Before the party, some friends and I gathered at one of our houses. As soon as I walked in with my two Carlsbergs and quarter-liter of Smirnoff, I knew I was in over my head. My friends had already started this little "Vorschpiel". On the table resided 12 empty beer bottles and half of a bottle of wine. There were three people so far, not including me. So, I sat down and joined the party. Within the hour, I was pretty buzzed. At that point, three other male companions had joined us. I was introduced to the great drink of "Karsk", which is just coffee mixed with whatever liquor is at hand. The party was beginning to look like a sausage-fest (not that I'm at all adverse to that, but they were all somehow related to me). That's when the chicks showed up. There were four in total, one who was currently attatched to my cousin Øystein, who is 21. Her name was Lene, and she became my smoking buddy for the next three nights. The first thing she did was make a beeline for my lap and begin to "masturbate" by hair. I guess it was to make it poofy or something, seeing as my hair is long and straight. All I know is that my normally beatiful, long hair was tangled as hell by the morning after. Anyway, Lene and her buddy Linda, were telling me girly-stories, since I apparently have known both of the since they were babies (Lene has a picture of me feeding her Yoghurt on her wall), and I'm more of a girl than a guy. Damn. Their other friend, who's name escapes me at the moment, proceded to pee all over herself in my buddy Gisle's hall. Nice start to the evening. When the time came to actually go to the party, we all packed in to two sedans that were waaaay too small to fit that many people. Ah, but before we actually packed in, Lene procured a bottle of something that kind of tasted like Norwegian apple-grape soda without the fizz. It took me a while, but I realized that it was home-made white wine. This revelation, of course, came after Lene and I had split the entire thing. We packed into the car, and I proceeded to hit on Linda, while her boyfriend sat next to her, holding her hand. She was too smashed to care, but he had a look that was a mix of indignation and intimidation. I don't think the scrawny, curly haired 15-year old kid was too pleased that the burly, 6'4" drunk guy was hitting on his girlfriend, but damned if he was gonna get his butt kicked for saying anything. Long story short, she turned out to be 15, and I stopped my advances instantly. I could hear the farm-country-rock-dance music thumping from the inside of the party house as we walked inside, but I was waaay too drunk to care. Lene and I went inside to say hello to my cousin, Øystein, her boyfriend, who was doubling as a guard. After this, we proceeded to drink more beer, karsk, and wine, play bloody knuckles, and somehow end up dancing "backwards", as my aunt described to me the day after (consisting of Lene facing my front with her back). Anyway, the night dragged on, and ended with me telling the local (and only) gay guy at the party that I was bisexual (a truth), which is probably now getting back to my family, a fact for which I will be disowned. Ah well. The morning after, I woke up with a foul taste of coffee, cigarettes and liquor in my mouth, and a strange scrape/bruise from the bottom of my pinky to my wrist, something that happened after I stumbled out of the car and fell on my hand. Interesting. Number of beers consumed: 5 Number of cups of karsk consumed: 6 Number of cigarettes split with Lene: 12 Number of Relatives who saw me smashed: 5 Number of Underage girls hit on: 2 Party Number Two The second party was actually a lot more fun, mostly because there were less family members, and more people I didn't know. And I didn't puke. But that's beside the point. The vorschpiel this time was held in my cousin Øystein's basement. This time, I had two Carlsbergs, again, and a quart-liter of Rum. Yummy. Anyway, basically the same things happened at this gathering. More drinking, more laughing at my hopeless grammar, and more hair masturbation. And more home-made wine from Lene. Yay. This party was a bit farther away than the first one, but the atmosphere was basically the same. Same music, same people, same drinking. It was here that I was re-introduced to Lene's mother, a good friend of my mother's during childhood. Strange. Two same-age friends have children who become friends later in life. Fate. Hmm. Anyway, we proceeded to drink more, dance more, and smoke more. At some point, I was hit on by one of the local elementary school teachers. The night went by fast, and it was time to go home. On the way home, Lene and I were in the back with my other cousin, Steffen, who is about my age. About half-way there, we stopped, and Steffen and I were kicked out to go to a nachtspiel at some random schmoe's house. This, I guess, was a weak excuse for Øystein to go home with Lene and have sex. Anyway, I walked into this farm-house, and was shocked by the total chaos. There were shoes strewn across the entire hall floor. There were jackets everywhere. And there were only 3 people in the house, besides Steffen and I. We went in, and were promptly offered more Karsk, beer, and such pleasantries, which we took. I was very unbcomfortable in this place. It just didn't seem right. I was correct... I sat down next to this nice-looking girl, who looked to be about 16 or 17, which is within my acceptable dating range. I struck up a conversation, which went something like this: Me: So, how are you? (hehe, hi, Søren:-) G: Good. You? Me: Drunk. G: Obviously. Me: Do you have a boyfriend? G: Well, I had one, but we broke up today... Me: Aww, that's too bad. She looks at me crookedly. G: I don't want to have sex with you. Me: Oh, heavens, no. I wasn't insinuating anything. I just like conversation. Silence. Me: So. Why did it end? G: He cheated on me... Me: Oh. G: ...With my mother... Me: OH! G: And he's upstairs with her right now... Me: Wow. That sucks. How old his he? G: 20. Me: Ah. How old is your mom? G: 33. Me. Oh. Wait, did you say 33? G: Yeah. Me: Wait, how old are you? G: 13. Jaw drops. Me: Did you and he ever...you know... G: Yeah, but it's none of your business... Anyway, the conversation went on like this for several more agonizing minutes before my aunt came and rescued me from the hell hole which was this house. I later learned just who this girl's father was, and I was glad I didn't get to sleep with her. More on that later... Number of beers consumed: 6 Number of cups of karsk consumed: 6 Number of cigarettes split with Lene: 10 (it was a light night) Number of Relatives who saw me smashed: 3 Number of Underage girls hit on: 2 Party Number Three The last party was by far the largest one. Before we started, I loaded up on cigarettes and loose papers, in case someone wanted to roll their own and ran out of papers. We had to take the bus to the party, which was a good hour away. Anyway, the night started once again in Gisle's basement, which we occupied the first night. This time, though, I was light on the beer (only one Carlsberg), chosing instead two bottles of Smirnoff Ice as a substitute. On top of that, I was completely devoid of liquor. The night started with me unsuccessfully trying to open a bottle with a lighter, from which I still have scars today. The hours rolled by, and I realized that I was not nearly drunk enough, so I asked my friend Tord if he had some liquor. He replied he had some at home, and went to fetch. Half an hour later, he came back with .35 liters of 96% home-made moonshine for me, which he sold to me for 50 Kr, the equivalent of, I guess, five bucks. Ah, what fun. Anyway, Lene showed up, and proceeded to masturbate my hair again. On the way to the bus stop, at which point I had consumed a third of my liquor bottle, she procured yet another bottle of wine, which we once again split two-ways. On the bus ride, I hit on Linda again, apparently forgetting her age. I went to sit down by Lene and Øystein, who were making out, and found myself next to a mountain of a farmer-man. I asked him his name, and he politely answered "Steinar". He seemed like the typical farmer from the region, sporting the mustache and mullet. Only thing was that he was more my size (huge), which no one is. Upon investigation, I learned that it was his house I had been at the night before. And that it was his daughter I had hit on. This only terrified me more when I heard the stories about Steinar squatting a Mitsubishi pickup by the hitch so that his friend could change the tire. Or the time he flipped a guy's VW Golf because he insulted Steinar's wife. Or the fact that it took two men to do his job on his sick-day, and that both of the guys died when the load they carried (a standard load for Steinar alone) became too heavy, and they fell in the ocean and drowned. Suddenly, I was glad I didn't sleep with his daughter (as if I wasn't before), and felt sorry for any man who he found banging his wife. Sheesh. Anyway, we stopped about half way to the party for a píss-break, on which I proceeded to fall on my face and crush several cigarettes. Damn. By the time we actually got to the party, I was 3 cigarettes poorer, and had gone through half my liquor bottle. We stepped into the party, which was bigger than the other two combined. Three hundred people were busy dancing to the crappy music. I went downstairs to the bathrooms with Lene, and proceeded to have my leg bitten while I was peeing by Gisle, our earlier host, who was too drunk to remember his name. The party lasted for a long time. We drank a lot of karsk, played drunken bloody-knuckles, and hit on chicks. One of these girls, who was skinnier than my leg and running around with a prevention-patch on her hip, fully visible, decided to make out with me, of all trollish beings (just look at my picture). That was cool, I guess. Lene and I were separated at some point during the night, which wasn't enjoyable, since we were basically joined at the hip the other two parties. But, however, I did manage to find a girl named Laila who I had met and danced with when I was 12, and proceeded to hit off a conversation about music. When I mentioned Pink Floyd, she knelt down and BOWED to me. It the back of my head, I said "Wow". We proceeded to drink more together, before she plopped me down in front of a girl I knew before. This girl, who's name was Kine, was the daughter of my Uncle Paul's ex-girlfriend. She was exactly one month older than me. And she was awesome. We proceeded to smoke, drink, and converse for about an hour and a half, before Laila showed up in some dude's arms, and proceeded to be dumped in my lap, because I was apparently her "damn boyfriend" and it was my responsibility to take care of her. Anyway, long story again made short, Laila ended up taking the wrong bus home, and landed in a town three hours away, by car, from her intended destination. I called her two days later, and she had no clue who I was. I never saw Kine again, nor did I see the girl with whom I shared spit. I hit on Linda again on the way home. I guess I just don't learn... Number of beers consumed: 7 Number of cups of karsk consumed: 8 Number of cigarettes split with Lene/others: 18 Number of Relatives who saw me smashed: 4 Number of Underage girls hit on: 6 Aah, yes. Thank you for letting me tell my drunken stories, even though they aren't particularly interesting. I hope you at least enjoyed them as much as I did when I was there, though I guess this is a case of "you had to be there" syndrome...  |
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