T is no much better antidote to your dirt and problems of surviving in sub-Saharan Africa than a dosage of Nordic Noir. When I stayed in the UK, I taken nearly exclusively African literary works and film, but these era – in Ghana and ever before seeking distinction – You will find spent a lot of a sweaty night gazing admiringly at Sarah Lund’s woolly jumpers and Saga Noren’s leather trousers, discussing the evidently respected spate of serial killings when you look at the Danish and Swedish dark.
So that it ended up being with a few excitement that I ventured to Oslo this period. I became created in Norway, but I have accumulated small understanding since making in youth aside from predictable rumours of strong fjords, large taxation, cross-country snowboarding and blond eyebrows. Despite my personal ignorance, i’ve carried my Norwegian roots around beside me – and discovered all of them as impractical to package as an open sub so when complicated to interpret as a set of Ikea training.
There is the countless intrigue at passport controls (“you used to be produced in which?”), with made me rather defiant concerning observed impossibility to be a black individual from Stavanger (pronounced “Stav-anj-uh” if you are an US immigration policeman), in addition to irritation of some other mispronounced identity to increase my personal list.
Thus after forever of hauling my personal available sandwich around, I happened to be fascinated to see whether i possibly could take in one.
Or whether the habit of devour smoked fish on breads would, like other Scandi stereotypes, become erupted when you look at the clean Nordic air. Continue reading “All white in Oslo: skaters about Spikersuppa rink.”
