Freakin' moose

Oslosommeren var akkurat like kjip som alle forventet den skulle være. Det hadde gått fra lette regndråper til mer øs-pøs, himmelen var mørk blå, nesten sort og jeg var lei. Lei fotball, lei av å rydde, lei usikre planer og kaldt hus. Jeg hadde tilbragt de mer regntunge delene av helgen inne og hadde gnagsår fra den turen jeg tok dagen før, da det faktisk var sol. Så nå måtte jeg ut. Lenge til middag, får ikke puste, klamt, EM venter. Jeg kastet det jeg hadde i hendene fra meg innenfor døra, hentet sykkelen. Kjørte på med girene, det er digg å måtte jobbe litt, smilte til naboen, opp bakken ved trikkestasjonen. Ikke et menneske å se, bare våte postkasser. Songsvann ligger ikke langt unna, det er deilig, men jeg har aldri syklet hit alene før, det har ikke vært nødvending. Nå var det absolutt nødvendig. Hadde dammen ved enden av vannet som mål, men det gikk så fort, og jeg var der for raskt. Måtte fortsette, trengte mer tid. Møtte flere folk på veien, fortsatt ikke alene. En jente kom tuslende ganske langt fra Songsvann, med lyseblå jakke og musikk i ørene. Hun smilte og jeg smilte tilbake og lurte på hva hun gjorde uti skogen i regnet. Samme som meg? Fortsatte. Kom til en bakke og tenkte, nei faen, jeg snur ikke bare fordi jeg møter en bakke, tyngre gir, tråkket oppover, kjente jeg ble varm, men regndråpene var kalde og kjølte ned kvadratmillimeter for kvadratmillimeter i ansiktet. På toppen kom to gutter joggende, nordmenn er helt sprø, skal på død og liv leke friskuser i drittvær. Tråkket på litt ekstra da de passerte. Så var det bare meg og skogen. Sykkelen min liker seg på grusvei, og skogen lukter så vakkert i regnet. Kjente lykke. Kom rundt en sving og der så jeg henne. Elgkua. Midt på stien. Jeg løp sekstimetern på under 10 sekunder i mine glansdager, tviler ikke på at elgen ville klart det samme. Bråbremset. Så stille det går ann. Klemte inn forbremsen, vippet opp bakhjulet og snudde sykkelen i en lekker kombinasjon av raskt/stille. Så meg en siste gang tilbake før jeg dundret nedover bakken igjen. Hjemover.

Anthropological wreck

This post is written slightly hungover after I've scrubbed the livingroom floor clean for Jameson 'n' apple. I'm done with my exams and haven't had anything anthropology-related course literature in more than a year, yet I can't stop thinking about anthropological phenomenons when I see one - and last night I was in one.

I hosted my work's annual Summer Party and although Malinowski preached field work in woob woob locations, I believe you can do field work right here. Or so my boss reminds me so I won't go eloping too much. But I am sure I was at the centre of an anthropological study last night, as people acted so abnormally correct within the boundaries of their social groups.

Muchachas rubias: Our Argentinean friend couldn't stop smiling when he saw the theme for the party - Hawaii. Hibiscus flowers, colourful balloons and a matching swimming pool all gave away the desired destination, and the matching blonde girls matched the interior perfectly. By chance all the girls at work are blonde, and with no reference to intelligence (I got into both master degrees), blonde girls are quite interesting if you start stereotyping. 1) If someone takes a photo, all girls drag out their camera and want the exact same photo to be taken with their camera. Because no-one shares photos on Facebook anymore appearantly... 2) When the food is ready everyone continues sitting polite at the table, waiting for someone else to go for the food tray. We all need food, for crying out loud, and I know you're hungry, so just help yourself! 3) Soccer is a big no no. Everyone loudly condemned the soccer watching guys, yet snuck in to get a quick Ronaldo-fix during a wee-break.

Yummy mummy: MILF is a term everyone learned off American Pie, yet "yummy mummy" is something girls strive to be (one day in the far far future) and all guys wish they could have (just wait). Yet having a three month old baby and still looking gorgeous just oozes respect.

WAGs: my job is owned and run by two cool guys and naturally they both have fantastic wives. Far from the Beckham/Rooney craze of Bvgari boobs and Vuitton vaginas, these ladies are supportive of their men, dedicated to family life and career women of their own. Think there's someone else who deserves some respect.

Socceroos: Yes, the Euro Cup is on. Yes, Italy lost, but we won't talk about that. Yes, there's four hours of football on every night, yet this didn't stop some of the party people from spending time in front of the telly, ignoring the sun outside to cheer on goals by Portugal. The interesting part is that the blonde chicks often snuck in to get an update on the score, and crammed together on the floor in their high heels and airy dresses.

Old boys: I won't mention names here, but someone did fit into the description "old boys." The war was discussed, these people actually remembered Paolo Rossi and his 1982 soccer career, and was old enough to watch the game in a pub with accompagnying beer. They were not the centre of the party, and probably hadn't been for some decades, yet gave it a delightful twist and shifted the focus away from the latest Sex and the City movie.

And where am I in all of this? Well, appearantly a good anthropologist should mingle with the locals and try to observe without obstructing. I did my best. I handed over my camera and smiled to the "Cheese". I'm far from a yummy mummy (due to lack of baby, not yumminess of course), yet looked in admiration on the parents nurturing their offspring. I'll be the first to admit I did watch the soccer, Helga even sent an e-mail around this morning stating why we should barrack for Portugal (his name starts with an Rrrr and I think he was topless in the photo). I got a book from one of the old boys, Everything you should know about Norway, and it was great, because it was probably one book I would never consider buying myself.

I always look abroad for experiences and destinations, but it seems like you don't always have to go overseas - neither for holidays nor field work.