Oslo Solstice (part I)
A few months ago, my roommates and I decided to hop off to Oslo for the longest weekend in the year - the weekend of the 21st of June. We had a long and hard look at the map scouring countries and cities alike for the northermost location within easy reach of Stansted and its Ryanair tentacles. That's how we ended up with Oslo - Oslo Torp to be more specific, some one hundred kilometers due South of the Norwegian capital.
At the time we booked our tickets, the only acquaintance we had over in Oslo was an English friend, Tom, who'd recently kicked the Suffolk dust off his boots to go settle in a no more clement weather but in a much cooler country. Unfortunately, since then, we'd heard very little of him to the extent that we started wondering whether some ugly troll had had the better of him lest it be a vile Viking scavenging his new home and slaughtering him mercilessly.
However Dame Chance was to be with us. Another friend of ours - a former resident of Ipswich too - was moving to Oslo but a month before our arrival. Leyre, a young pretty Spaniard from Madrid was therefore to become our official tour guide. One must add it was a role quite befitting her as she was going to Oslo to work at the Spanish TOurism Board Office.
And thus it all began - from a few clicks on a massive Irish low cost airline's website to slamming doors shut on Amaia's antique VW golf, 'French-style' (i.e. with the steering wheel on the left and a musty sense cheese had been consumed on this four-wheel contraption).
Friday June 20th 2008 - 3PM. Bull Rd somewhere in an eastern town longing for past football glories. Four personas: Amaia, Spanish, and the day's driver; Rubén, affectionately called Mono, also Spanish; JuanLu still Spanish though a totally different strand - made in Madrid and proud of it; lastly myself, David, French every last square centimeter.
And so we drove off to Stansted Airport, Essex's White Elephant. The ride was uneventful save for a sorry prank JuanLu and I shared and whose victim was none other than Amaia. Need I say Rubén slept through it all?
Once we made our way to the terminal after having tucked the car away in LTP (long term parking), Amaia felt it necessary to share some gruesome facts about air accidents and cabin depressurization and the effects thereof on one's eyes and cheeks. Cheeky girl that one.
We got our revenge on her when - as we went through security - she got thoroughly search (and I would love to say probed) inside out for simply 'forgetting' some toothpaste and endless creams (all within the 100ml limits) in her backpack. I did the same to be quite honest. What's the point if they don't event notice half of the time? The man who checked both our bags sported an arm length tattoo of a pin up girl in very light lingerie. I wonder what might happen when the security guard flexes his muscles in different ways.
At last, airside Stansted, home to Duty Free, cheap alcohol, chart DVDs, bingo games, and a JD Wetherspoon. Being with three Spaniards, I had no choice but to head over to the Alcohol store which - because we were leaving the EU (Norway isn't in the EU) - had some serious offers to brag about and tempt us with. Surely enough, a few quid later, having flashed our boarding cards to the sales clerk, we were well equipped to spend the weekend in what is known as one of the most expensive places on Earth when it comes to sipping & slurring such inflammable liquids as Whiskey and Rum.
