A nightly encounter

It´s New Years Eve, a half hour past midnight.

As I prepare to leave the intersection, I spot her – a tall, dark skinned woman with two small children. Never seen her before, she signals to me. I lower the window, light drizzle comes in as she gives me a key with an address on it. Can I help her get there? It´s in town, so she has overshot her tube stop by 30 minutes. Strange.

I help her and the kids get in the car, out of the cold, while I make up my mind – will there be a return tube shortly? The two girls, aged about 2 and 4, seem scared, and small wonder, the mother says they only got here a few weeks ago. They are dressed warmly, though. I am headed towards town in any case, so I quickly decide to drive them there. That is what the mother expects, too, that much is clear. God has sent me, and she invokes his blessing on me. I accept it. Good English.

We drive off in the climate-change-drizzle. No minus ten and shiny snow this year.

She has the deep dark skin of South of Sahara and tells me she is Catholic. In her mid twenties she has two daughters and a husband who´s been in Norway for some years. It is clear God will decided the final number of children, though she tells me it is expensive to raise children in Norway. I concur. I suggest that family planning is common in many Catholic countries. God has planned it all, she says. I say there is no God.

I ponder telling her not to circumcise her daughters.

She´s constantly on the phone to her sister and husband. She is worried, that much I can tell. I can see the husband´s name on the phone display. A large Android of some type. He does not reply, or the line keeps dropping.

We pull up at the apartment in central Oslo East. Rented, no doubt. He is standing there, tall, dark, angry, with a cold, limp handshake and full lips. Could he be an ex-soldier? He is frustrated, but also aloof, not connecting with what I tell him.

I explain how I found her, that there are no taxis where I live, that I expect no payment. I tell him to take good care of her, she is scared, everything is new and strange to her. Why didn´t she get off at the right stop, she knows the place! I tell him God sent me and that he has two lovely daughters. All the while the mother is standing behind us, facing away from us. They have not exchanged a single word. The girls are fast asleep in the backseat. I gently prise them from the seatbelts, hand them over to him and to their fate.

ADAX Set ring hytta varm

Jeg er fornøyd med Adax Set systemet, men synes Appen, markedsføringen og kundestøtten er helt bak mål. Derfor dette lille blogginnlegget.

Adax tilbyr to (tre) enkle fjernstyrte stikkontakter. Det finnes to Master-enheter med SIM, der den ene kan styre en slave. Enhetene er rimelige, og styres fra en App. Den dyreste har også termometer, så du kan bruke den som termostat. Fint!

Min erfaring med Appen er at den er elendig, både iPhone og Android. Det Appen gjør er å sende SMSer, så man kan lett se hva kommandoene egentlig er. Her er de gjengitt, så sender du bare SMS til enheten på dens telefonnummer.

Oppsett

Ta kontroll over enheten (gjøres bare én gang, eller dersom du bytter telefonnummer). Dette kan du godt gjøre fra Appen også, det er de andre funksjonene i Appen som er virkelig dårlige.

#99#SIMNR#NNNN#0#

Her er SIMNR rett og slett det tyvesifrede SIM-nr, og NNNN er en pin du velger. I og med at kun du kjenner denne, vil ikke andre kunne kontrollere enheten. Sannsynligvis knyttes nå ditt avsendernummer til enheten, slik at andre telefoner (din kones) ikke kan styre den.

Koble til slave:

Trykk på wifi-symbolet på slaven. LED blinker nå. Send kommando:

#200#1#Stue#

Det piper litt, så lyser LED konstant, og du er i mål!

Her har jeg valgt Stue som navn på enheten. Mest sannsynlig er det 200 som identifiserer enheten, og dersom du skal ha bad i tillegg, må du eks skrive #201#1#Bad# (jeg har bare én slave )

Vanlig bruk

Status: #07#

Skru på Master: #01″

Skru av Master: #00#

Sett temperatur til 9 grader: #159#9# 

Skru på slave “Stue”

#200#01#1#

Skru av slave “Stue”

#200#00#1#

Chocolate scone cookies

This recipe is a mix of scone and cookie. Try it.

About 550 ml wheat flour, or just over two cups
2 eggs
150 grams sugar
1 dl milk
1 spoon (10 ml) baking powder/ bakepulver
150 g butter 

Mix the dry stuff. Knead in the cold butter, pastry style, with your hands until homogeneous.

Mix egg and milk, and add to the rest. Add chocolate chips if you want to.

You now have a quite wet dough. Put some flour on your hands and create twelve ball-shaped thingies, and put on baking thingy, then glaze with some egg/milk mixture that you held aside over.

Put in oven about 20 mins, 200 Deg Centigrade (400F).

Then double the recipe and repeat.

Rimmel på norsk

Francesco de Gregori “Rimmel” i norsk oversettelse…

Rimmel er et sminkemerke, synonymt med Mascara.

Første vers
Det er noe som blir igjen mellom de lyse og de mørke arkene
og jeg visker vekk navnet ditt fra min fasade
og blander mine grunner og dine unnskyldninger
mine grunner og dine unnskyldninger

Hvem delte meg kortene, hvem kalte meg vinner
en sigøyner kan alle triksene
og fremtiden kom så fort hadde jeg enda vært litt yngre
da hadde jeg smadret den med fantasien
revet den i filler med fantasien

Refr:
Ta nå bare leppene dine og send dem til en ny adresse
over mitt ansikt kan du strekke en annens
og de fire essene dine som alle er av samme farge
de kan du gjemme eller spille om du vil
eller la oss leke gamle venner en gang til

Annet vers:
For en vilje til å leve, og søte synder i Mascara
Som dengang det regnet ute og du spurte meg
om jeg ennå hadde det gamle bildet
Der du smilte ut i luften

Vinden strøk mykt over pelskraven din / og over ditt vesen
og jeg sa ja uten å tenke meg særlig om
og du sa: det er alt du har av meg
det er alt jeg har av deg

Refr
Ta nå bare leppene dine og send dem til en ny adresse
over mitt ansikt kan du strekke en annens
og de fire essene dine som alle er av samme farge
de kan du gjemme eller spille om du vil
eller la oss leke gamle venner en gang til

Forever young

Hearing Forever Young on the radio brought back a vivid memory from a summer many years ago when my sister was still alive. We were returning by boat from a drink and a dance in a rather shabby joint on a nearby island, and hitched a ride with one of the local heroes. He had a quite powerful daycruiser, and we piled in, having to sit on the rear deck directly above the engine, literally on the engine hatch. It was windless night, with a full moon hanging over the black waters between the pine-tree covered islands that line the coast. The scene was really beautiful, but what made it stick in my memory wasn’t just the display of the beauty of nature.

We cruised slowly out of the harbour, and then the driver opened the throttle wide; the engine roared and strained below us to lift the boat out of the water’s wet grip in order to be able to skim along the surface at speed. Slowly, inexorably, the engine won the struggle, gaining speed which lifted the boat and lessened the water’s resistance, thus allowing the boat to gather more speed, further lessening the water’s hold on the hull, and then we were flying along the water, leaving a wide band of boiling foam intersected by the broad beam of the moon. On the powerful stereo, clearly audible above the roar of the engine,  Alphaville’s “Forever Young” was playing, as an ironic counterpoint to the whole scene; its romantic longing for eternal life or youthful death (“let us die young or let us live forever”) a fitting comment to the spectacle of a powerboat blasting through the night, as if its cargo of humans were trying to overcome the natural limitations on man, defiantly displaying their mastery of technology that for a brief moment allowed them to overcome their physical limitations, the inherent weakness of their mortal coils.

The whole experience gave me an immense thrill. I felt thoroughly alive and relished the intense flow of physical energy from the engine below that hurled us along. For me, it might have gone on forever, like those moments in sexual intercourse when you want time to stop. You don’t want to go back, you don’t want to move forward, because that means the end of the state you’re in. Such was the elation of that boat ride.

Little did we know then that my sister would indeed die young, as she sat beside me on the aft deck, and I held an arm around her shoulder to shelter her from the cool, humid air of the night.

e-tec oils xd50 xd100 and winterization

( do not rely on this to make decisions about your own engine)

Update Aug. 2018: Three seasons the engine has been running on xd100 oil with the xd50 setting. Hasn´t blown up yet.

The Evinrude e-tec uses direct oil injection, similar to other modern two-strokes like the Mercury Optimax (they are also similar in using direct fuel injection, though injection pressure is different).

The e-tec can use both the xd50 semisynthetic and xd100 synthetic oils. The former is a standard two stroke oil compliant with the TC-W3 specification, the bread and butter of two stroke oils. The xd100 is fully synthetic and allows the e-tec to run on a leaner setting, and it´s probably also less smelly in its own right.

The e-tec brain has two settings, xd50 OR xd100-

Setting: “xd50”: you can use the xd50 oil or the xd100 oil

Setting: “xd100”: you can only use the xd100 oil (since less oil is supplied and has to be of a higher quality)

When going from xd50 to xd100, it is OK to have a small amount of xd50 left in the tank; it seems you can simply run the xd50 low in the tank and fill up with xd100.

For cold weather, 5 deg Centigrade and less, xd100 seems to be recommended.

Winterization:

  1. Fully open fast idle lever
  2. Start engine
  3. Wait about 15 seconds until lights go out on speedo
  4. Quickly close fast idle lever
  5. Wait about 15 seconds until lights go out on speedo
  6. Fully open fast idle lever again
  7. The engine now revs up while the warning lights flash, and after a few minutes engine shuts down automatically
  8. Done

Greece 25 years later

Thoughts about Greece July 2015

In 1989 to 1990 I lived ten months on Crete. While this hardly makes me an expert on Greece, some reflections present themselves in the current situation.

This morning I also read about the trial in Thailand in connection with the harrowing murders of two British backpackers, and an image came to mind of what it must be like for the families. They find themselves in a parallel universe where their own ideas about police work, justice, evidence, fair trial etc are suddenly gone, replaced by something similar, but crucially different. What is important “back home”, may be irrelevant “over there”.

And this experience I lived in Greece, a different reality. While I was there, Venus was visible low on the horizon in the morning, very large, shimmering, it seemed to pulsate. It was there day after day. And yet, more than one person spoke of a UFO; people were excited. I found it strange. After all, it was just Venus.

I was part of the black economy, teaching English, while my girlfriend worked in a private school, a “Frontistirio xenon glosson”, where the owner took pride in playing by the book, paying taxes and a proper salary. It was clear to us that this was an exception. My own stay there was illegal, since Norway was not in the EEA at the time, but this was conveniently ignored by the local police, who knew everyone, of course, in the fairly tiny community.

The contrast to northern Europe was quite clear, and it still is.

Seeing Varoufakis, fresh off his motorbike next to Schauble, fresh off his chaffeur-driven Mercedes, is like seeing the grasshopper and the ant. For one, you work to live. For the other, you live to work.

On top of this, Schauble is a descendant of Nazi Germany, whilst Varoufakis is the survivor of the Greek exodus from Anatolia in the early twenties, the brutal and ruthless Nazi occupation, the bloody three-year civil war that followed WWII, and the brutal dictatorship of the colonels. When I walked on Crete in 1990 with my blond hair and blues eyes, old men would invariably challenge me: “Germanos?” “Oxi, Norvigos!”. “Kaló Norvegia!”. In other words, it was better to be Norwegian than German (see also Anogia on this blog).

The point is this: the current events will no doubt look very different from a Greek perspective than they do from ours. Memory runs deep in Greece, and on top of this, basic assumptions about the world are simply different from those of the stereotypical northern European.

Do not forget either that the Greeks are very proud. They regard themselves as immeasurably superior to the Turks, for instance, and as the custodians of a proud heritage of civilization and culture. Not just any culture, but the Hellenic culture, which is the foundation of European culture. Christianity is not a Middle Eastern invention, it springs from Rome and Athens, Athens and Rome.

This pride – however poorly linked to current realities – also informs the Greek reaction to the outside world.

Do “we” owe the Greeks a break? I believe we do.

Tur med R i Nordmarka 2. april

Det ble skitur. Nede i byen er det ti pluss og båtpuss, i marka er det perfekte forhold. Store kontraster.

Nordmarka

Turen startet i garasjen hos R. Her ble mine skøyteski utstyrt med noe som heter riller for første gang, og påført et lag fluor fra en boks med svamp på tuppen. Dette skulle vise seg å gi super glid, også på våte partier. Har aldri hatt så god glid på sugeføre noen gang. Føret var ekstremt vekslende, fra isete og hardt i nordvendte skyggepartier, til ren påskeslaps i solhellingene, men stort sett var det veldig bra, og bildet er tatt noen km sør for Kikut, der var det helt “mega” forhold, som man ser. R gjør et lite hopp til ære for fotografen  – eller mister han balansen? På mye av turen så jeg ellers ryggen – eller rompa  – hans, i og med at han gjerne lå litt foran og passet på at det ikke ble noen dassetur…. men her var et kjærkomment øyeblikk da farten var nede i 0 km/t, ja kanskje endatil lavere.

Hjemturen var preget av sol, netto utforbakke, og at det ble langt mellom kondomdressfantomene, og desto tettere mellom vanlige turgåere, fra fireårsalderen til ca 80. Imponerende. Én ting som slo meg, som har lite erfaring fra denne delen av Nordmarka, er hvor kupert det er. Opp og ned, ned og opp. Drepen for småbarn, og temmelig slitsomt selv for en senesterk atlet som meg. På slutten var det dessuten tre timer siden siste tilførsel av karbohydater – tabbe – og undertegnede lå som en klut i motbakkene. Både slitsomt og flaut. R har tydeligvis en helt annen evne til å dosere ut glukose fra lever og andre gjemmesteder, og gikk jevnt og trutt. Jeg antar i alle fall det, det var litt vanskelig å fokusere og han gikk i ett med granleggene et sted ute i synsranden.

Alle var enige om at det hadde vært en fin tur!

Tur til Løvlia lørdag morgen med Lucy

oppstart

Her begynner eventyret, kl 0710. Det er minus 4 hjemme, og minus 8 ved By i Lommedalen.

Lucy løper løs foran meg. Hun har svake jaktinstinkter, og går aldri på tur for seg selv i skogen.

soloppgang

Det er tungt å gå i begynnelsen. Kaldt i lungene og jeg er lett kledd. Solen kommer opp men når ikke ned i elvedalen der jeg går. Først etter over en time skinner solen i løypene, som er fine: jeg møter tråkkemaskinen før halv åtte, sammen med en dame med hund som allerede har tatt morgenturen. Foran meg har én person gått – lange seige skøytetak, maskinmessig. Jeg møter ham siden, han er på vei ned. Høy og sterk type.

lovlia

To timer senere er vi fremme ved Løvlia. De siste kneikene er svært tunge. Godt med kaffe og sjokolade. Høyre sko har vært for stram, og forfoten er iskald. Den får massasje, og jeg får Firkløver. En forsamling menn i femtiårene spiser frokost. Slanke, kledd i superundertøy. De gjør opp for ølet fra dagen før og diskuterer dagens tur. Skal de gå rett hjem fra Kikut? En av dem, en bergenser, sier at det er ingen hast, for det venter masse oppgaver på ham hjemme.

Deilig å vende snuten hjemover, det er mye nedover, og solen tar nå.

dalen

Bildet er fra toppen av “morderbakken”; nå begynner det å komme folk oppover, klokken er blitt 10. Heretter kommer det mer og mer folk oppover.

greineloypa

Rett før man kommer ned til Tverrelva går en løype opp i skogen til venstre. Det står en hyggelig dame der, jeg spør henne. Den går til Greine-hytta, og jeg tar sjansen. Den begynner med noen saftige kneiker som jeg kjenner godt i lår og lunger, så er det et skogholt med lite snø, og så er resten en åpenbaring av sol og grantrær og ikke et menneske, men noen har tråkket en flott løype. Bare til meg, Løytnant Glahn og hans Æsop. Sterk naturopplevelse.

Lucy Lovlia

Lucy er trøtt, lunter bak meg.

Klokka 11 er vi nede. tre pluss nå, og sol. På radioen siteres Nansen: “Skiløpingen er idrettenes idrett“. Det er i alle fall ikke langt unna.

Dear Jamee

Dear Jamee,

For a while I have been thinking of writing to you, or should I say “you”, since the you I am writing to is an imaginary locus formed part from a distant memory of Jamee, part from myself. And I still remember two words I first heard from you – “mordant” and “trenchant”. There was a third latinate word there, too, that I have forgotten. Now, this was definitely you, diplomat son from Karachi. How far from the subway drivers of my childhood´s Oslo, immigrants from the villages of illiteracy, ostensibly from the same country as you. Pakistan – carved out of the empire, with regions with crazy names like “North West frontier area”  and “Tribal territories”. But these are things I realized much later, along with the clannish structure of your native lands – there was an article lately about how these structures structure marriages in Oslo today. Of course that makes sense. Social structures are part of who we are – where we travel, they travel.

Mordant, then, from “mordre” in French, and Trenchant, from “trancher”, French again. Norse conquest of Normandy followed by Norman conquest of England followed by English conquest of India, the words like ribbons through time and space. And before all  that, the Roman conquest of Gallia, linking the north of France to Rome. Ah, Rome. Visualizing the Pantheon sends a chill down my spine. Why this connection?

Lying next to me on the train seat as we roll through the flat countryside north of Oslo is Le Monde Diplomatique. As if I had recently bought it at the newsagents in Ecully, or maybe at the Gare du Nord. Le Monde Diplo, symbol of cultural capital and the right liberal – tier monde attitudes. That´s me, then.

The Charlie Hébdo attacks almost made me nauseous when the news broke, and I know that this was due to my connection with France and with that completely irreverent streak in French culture. Like Italy, I suppose. The cultural pressure to kow-tow and brown-nose is strong in the schools, in the work-place, in the family – so when the floodgates open, they open big-time. At Centrale de Lyon, they once wrote “Barre-toi” on the wall (“get lost”) on the eve of a visit by a top politician called “Raymond Barre”. This made such an impression on me that I remember it to this day. I tried to read Le Canard Enchainé back then, and I remember also the attitudes of fellow students when it came to authority. You pretend to respect.  But never more.

It´s the same in Italy.

We were (wild) and young and free.

And while Frank diligently filled his little notebook with neatly scribbled Russian vocab, I never had that diligence. I suspect I still do not have it. But one thing I have learned while working as a consultant is that you have to make sure you meet expectations, so you gotta stay tuned to what they are. And thank goodness working life in Norway has human dimensions. Some years ago I talked to an American working in a factory near Chigaco. I think he got up at four to start his long commute by car, I can´t remember the length of his working day, but it was late by the time he was back. I am living in a bubble of privilege with my fellow countrymen. While the Poles and Lithuanians fill in the blanks.

I´ve learned a lot about myself (or have I??) – yes, I have. But I know you would recognize me. The humour, outgoing style and intelligence.  The curiosity. The ability to be annoying. They are still there. Even some of the restlessness. A sort of impatience with the world, too. In one sense I am more cynical, in the sense that I have lowered expectations. My fellow men and women on this planet … what to say? I think we struggle to summon sufficient empathy. We remain locked in patterns of thinking. In short, we are highly developed, but not highly developed enough. Prejudice and short-sightedness have fertile conditions in our minds.

I mean, evidently peace and good living conditions are but an extended hand away for the entire planet, but greed and distrust get in the way. And religion! And indifference. And a number of other vices.

I vividly remember a tall guy of Algerian descent at Centrale de Lyon. He told me of this troubles renting a room. You did not need to talk to him for long, or even look at him for long, to see that he was an upright fellow of good background. Yet, prospective landlords saw only his olive skin, black hair and vaguely Algerian features. I keep this in mind when I read about the riots in the banlieues. And returning to Le Monde Diplo, long article there about Japan and the demographic shortfall which shall have to be filled by immigrants – but the country is deeply xenophobic and has a “blood” approach to citizenry. Like Germany and Israel. Unlike the US and France. Though you could argue that the Republican ideals are only skin deep … below lurks the old chauvinism. In both countries. And in “mine”, but I must say Norway is pretty open. The deputy of Labour is now a woman in her early thirties, daughter of immigrants from Pakistan. For some reason her surname is Tadjik, which does not sound terribly Pakistani. She´s married to an infidel, though, so not your typical Qu´ran-waving person.

So the question  then is really about progress, and I hesitate to conclude. We can safely say that since back then, the Soviet union is no more and China looms a lot larger, the Arab world is like a chrysalis bursting open in fits, letting out not just butterflies but much else besides, before shutting itself again. Islam is waiting for its Enlightenment, its Illumination, washing over it, replacing the Medieval with the Ambivalent, to leave only pockets of madness, like the Hasidic Jews in New York that I recently read about, or the millions of fundamentalist Christians in the US. The US needs its own Enlightenment. Admit of it. God never existed outside our imaginations.

We can say one thing though – capitalism has prevailed. The only pockets for resistance are best forgotten – North Korea, Cuba. In Nicaragua the Chinese are building a new canal, a sort of Panama 2.0, though I imagine they will give it a different name.  25 years ago this would have been conclusive proof of a Communist takeover in the region (“Middle America”, we call it). These days, not so much, just proof that the Chinese are loaded and are building their own empire.

It´s time to stop building empires.

On that note – see you soon, I hope.

J