Wrong.  I just came across a news feed from the Vancouver Sun, saying that a report assembled by Health Canada regarding the effects of climate change on health has not been published online as most government reports are, as they should be.   Instead, you have to e-mail them to request your own copy, because the pdf document was ‘too large’ to make available on Health Canada websites.  Right.

This article just reminded me about how very blunt, and no-nonsense Norwegians can be.  The taxes paid by every Norwegian are open to the public.  I can check what the guy next door makes and how much in taxes he paid.  My high school teacher? No problem.  I personally haven’t checked this out, so I don’t know if the I can check out the Prime Minister’s income (don’t know why it wouldn’t be available), but it’s such a novel concept to me, when my own government back home is loath to even tell me how they’ve discovered climate change affects my health.

I can only imagine how this system would be received in Canada.  With riots and a coincidental spate of murders or robbery of wealthy Canadians, I suspect.

A resurgence of my eye infection that I suffered from immediately prior to my departure from Canada has unfortunately reared its ugly, bacterial head today.  Normally, I’d wait it out, but memory of the previous 10 days of itchy, red, discharging misery I’d suffered was still fresh.  That and this time, my actual eyeball was swelling.

Like a hypochondriac, I tried to self-diagnose online, only to take my acute distress to full blown panic after coming across the recommendation of “get it taken care of now, or you may have to be hospitalized.” Images and thoughts of being permanently blind in one eye, or being transformed into some kind of female Quasimodo flashed through my mind and my hour or two of dithering and far-fetched hope that it was take care of itself dissolved.

I packed every important, relevant piece of documentation involving my presence in Norway, and took myself to the bus stop.  I contemplated walking to the hospital, but decided it was far enough away that I was better off taking the bus and making sure I actually got to the hospital.

The bus driver was nice enough not to charge me fare, although I had it out and ready.  When we got to the hospital, he wrote down what “Emergency”should be in Norwegian, told me to look for a sign saying those words, and wished me luck.  Clutching that piece of paper like a lifeline, I searched the hospital campus and nearby hospital maps for those fabled words, but found nothing.

After asking at an information desk, I ended up finding it.  I was in a room where every single sign was in Norwegian.  At first, I tried to translate them, but broke down and talked to the nurse.  Language was a slight barrier, but we worked through it.  I waited a mere 5 or 10 minuets before my name was called, but had to wait for an English-speaking doctor (at least, I think that’s why I was waiting.)  There were three doors in front of me, all labelled “legekontor,” which my Norwegian-English dictionary assured me meant “surgery.” My panic rose a notch.

Eventually, I saw a doctor who punctuated both our statements with a solemn “hrrrrmm…” which made him sound intelligent and thoughtful, but also made me want to laugh at him.  More prescriptions.

Apparently only one pharmacy existed in town that was ever open on weekends, and it was on the other side of sentrum (the hospital is on the south-west side of sentrum, which is a triangular island surrounded by the fjord).  Not wanting to spend 30 Kr on the bus (approximately 6 CDN), I walked downtown and came across the big mall downtown.  I wandered in, thinking at least I could have a look and cut through it.  I saw a sign for a pharmacy, investigated, found it open, and got my drugs.

Lesson of the day: don’t explore a new town or city by having to go to the hospital.

It is also rather new to me to have student housing in the city itself, and not on university campus (although that may be because there are some 10 campuses for NTNU alone), that most of the housing is co-ed, and to have students from different institutions in the same village.

A convenience store and small grocery store are located within the village itself, and are open until 11 on weekdays. Sweet.

I’ve now settled into my new home for the next 10 months. I likely would not have made it had I not met a Ugandan girl at the airport. She was also a student, and as this was her second year in Trondheim, knew her way around. She led me and another hapless first-time student we came across through the back streets of downtown (called “Sentrum”or “Midtbyten”) Trondheim to the city bus stop that would take us to the student village reception area.

One of my new roommates was home when I arrived; a girl from Peru, studying Project Management. We chatted for a bit before I went to my room, unpacked a bit and inevitably fell asleep on the bed, fully clothed and having neglected to put any bedsheets on the mattress. Nothing cures jetlag like a few hours’nap in the middle of the day.

Gate C4

August 7, 2008, 08:31 local

Washington Dulles airport is ghetto.

When I arrived, I was unsure if I was supposed to collect my baggage and proceed to the SAS check-in counter, or stay in the terminal. The one SAS gate was unmanned, but the lady at the airport information kiosk said that someone should be around shortly, so I waited, and in waiting, wandered around the airport.

Upon my return to the gate, a blonde (of course!) woman was setting up the barriers for the lines we’d have to form to board the plane. I asked her if i had to go back to the check-in counter, explaining that I had flown in on another airline, who had been unable to provide me with boarding passes for this next flight, and she looked at me, aghast, and said, “No, you’d have to go through security again to do that. We don’t want that. I’ll print your boarding passes here.” I like Scandinavians already.

The flight over the pond was reasonably comfortable, except for the unfortunate occurrence of vomit, which was conveniently projectiled into a toilet. Embarrassingly enough, I either spent enough time in the toilet (this was after dinner and there was a significant lineup) or someone heard me being sick and sent an attendant to ask after me. Then, at a later time, while waiting for the toilet again, a gentleman asked me if I was feeling better. Oops. I still don’t know why I was sick, but it was unfortunate, because the meal (choice of chicken or fish – I chose the former) was actually half decent.

Note for future reference, emergency exit seats have awesome legroom. This plane was the largest I’ve been on since going to Vancouver in the early days, with seats in pairs at the windows, then four seats in the middle of the plane. How things have changed in such a short time.

Copenhagen airport is different from any airport I’ve seen. It doesn’t seem to follow with the high, vaulted ceilings generally favoured by North American airports, even the ghetto ones like Dulles. The airport here looks more like a high-end mall than an airport. The gates are somewhat obscure in comparison to the malls lining either side of the main concourse. Nor is there ample seating at each gate; rather smaller benches and seating areas are placed throughout the concourse, with groups of seating for only about 40 people available in front of some of the gates.

Already I’m having a rough time figuring out the true cost of things here (since prices are marked in Danish kroner or Euro, neither of which I am particularly familiar with), even though I know better and expect most prices to be substantially higher than those in Canada. Thankfully no one seems to have a problem with the language (ie. I talk in English and hope they are able to respond and don’t think me as an ignorant American). We’ll see if that changes outside the airport.

Jetlag hasn’t seemed to have caught up to me yet. Cross fingers.

Terminal 1, Gate 166

August 6, 2008, 09:30 EST

It’s 9:30 in the morning and I’m sitting at Gate 166 (a change from gate 164). The flight, originally scheduled to leave at 10:10, has been delayed slightly to 10:30…so far. Getting to the airport was an epic journey. We left the house shortly after 06:30, both to beat the morning traffic and to get Austin to work on time.

Turns out it is so much the better that we left so early; shortly after we got on the highway, traffic in the express lanes slowed to standstill. Belatedly, a traffic advisory on the radio announced that there had been a four-vehicle accident in the westbound lane, and one of those vehicles was a container truck with a load of lumber. The lumber spilled out of the truck, spilling over the westbound lanes, reducing traffic from four lanes to one, with cars being forced to pass the site of the accident by driving on the paved shoulder.

We sat in traffic for an hour, turning what was supposed to be a half hour jaunt to an hour and a half hand-wringing, sigh expelling trial of patience. Of course, as we passed the site of the accident, two lanes were being opened to traffic. The rest of the journey went relatively smoothly.

I arrived, checked in via self-serve kiosk, printed my boarding pass and got into the economy check in line. Which, as I got in, came to a standstill. A United Airlines employee started running around, looking for additional agents (there were only two, but in the 15 to 20 minutes I had been standing in line, only one or two people had been served). He found two, luckily, and the line started moving. I think the group in front of me had a Canadian rhythmic gymnast on her way to the Olympics? Orlando. I’ll have to check. Unfortunately, there were two large groups in front of me. The guy behind me asked me if my backpack was heavy, as he had noticed I had been standing in line for half an hour. Shortly after, I got to speak to an agent.

Then I pointed out to the agent that my first and last names had been reversed, and that the abbreviation ‘MS’ (for Ms) had been tacked onto my last name, and that I was concerned that customs or security would have a problem with this. She said the name reversal was fine, and that everyone had Ms unless they were a man. I pointed out that the “MS” was tacked directly onto my last name, asking if she was sure and she said yes, unless I was a man .

I moved on to customs. Luckily, something went relatively smoothly. So did baggage dropoff, although the man assisting me was insistent that my backpack was not fragile (it has a plastic ‘occipital notch’ for your head so you can look up), despite what United Airlines’ website said.

Security screening was okay too. My eczema is driving me crazy. And so it goes.

Edit: When I arrived in Norway, I did some research about that girl in front of me, and indeed, she was Alexandra Orlando, member of Canada’s Olympic rhythmic gymnastic team. In retrospect, I wish I’d talked to her instead of standing there wondering if she actually was part of the Olympic team, and wished her luck.