globalised

I've spent the weekend in Bergen, Norway, visiting three of close friends from Cape Town - Therese, Helge and Kristin, all housemates from 73 Arnold Street. Therese and Helge have both visited me in the States, and at times they know me better than I know myself - so most of the time, drinking beer and eating big breakfasts and traipsing through coffee shops with them has just felt like home. Then there are the moments when I feel a silly grin spread across my face, turn to my friends and exclaim in wonderment, "I'm in NORWAY!" or ask "...wait, HOW far north are we again?!" or try again to practice my "Æs" and "Øs" and "Ås".

And then there are the moments that call for a reality check. Drinking South African Amarula and Norwegian beer, I discussed the election with a Norwegian scholar of American politics, as well as the merits (or demerits) of Budweiser, which is available in England as an expensive import beer. Meanwhile, Helge taught Therese to dance forró, a popular dance he learned while in Brazil this summer, and I shared my memories of a Cuban salsa bar in Cape Town.

Later, we went to a birthday party for a Norwegian girl who spent her senior year of high school as an exchange student outside of Grand Rapids, Michigan. I met another party guest who's travelled twice to Tofo, Mozambique; we exclaimed over mutual acquaintances and swapped whale shark stories, and she asked me for advice about renting a car in Johannesburg this December. Someone's iPod was hooked up, and I heard South Africa's Freshlyground just before a Ray LaMontagne song that reminded me of Amherst.

After that, Therese, Helge and I went to Cafe Opera, where we danced to reggae with a crowd that could've been transplanted from Cool Runnings in Obs. On the way home, we walked past posters in every 7-Eleven window advertising Ben & Jerry's Phish Food.

What a world.