Overseas Briefing

Author: Kelsey Eichhorn

A mid-summer morning in Oslo, Norway finds the sun cresting the fjord horizon at 5:30 a.m. Exhausted university students do not enjoy rays peaking through the curtains at such an unseemly hour, yet daybreak is a welcome friend to the local Oslo Fjord fishermen, whose workday began in the brisk darkness at 4 a.m.

Haling from the university student breed rather than from the fisherman breed, my day begins later. As I emerge from the T-ban station at Oslo's Stortinget subway stop, the metropolitan bustle greets me. Whilst nothing compared to the clamor of NYC, it is the healthy, hospitable pulse of a small but thriving city in an out-of-the-way corner of Europe. I wrap my scarf once more around my neck and pause momentarily to purchase a licorice from the tattooed, kilt-wearing, bagpipe-playing guy sporting a mohawk who sells candy and wool hats on the corner, before winding my way to the docks.

Red, blue, white, brown, short, long, thin, wide, tall fishing boats line the docks. Cod is the most popular catch, but there are numerous other varieties, my favorite being the shrimp - here, shrimp is caught daily, cooked in enormous skillets nailed to the boat deck. The fishermen wend their way back to the docks, and sold, ready-to-eat.

The boat that catches my eye is old. Originally white, now a paint-chipped gray-brown, the Norwegian flag proudly flutters off the back rail. A weathered elderly gentleman clad in yellow bibs, a smoky wool sweater, and a herringbone cap, seated in a tattered folding chair on the deck rests his eyes. He rises as I approach, smiles, and inquires something in Norwegian. Uh-oh.

My conversational skills extend just far enough to ask whether or not my new friend speaks English. He doesn't.

I could have a short conversation with him regarding food options and prices at the University of Oslo cafeteria, but I settle for a smile, in the awkward way most Americans do when they feel embarrassed by their lack of worldly-knowledge and cultural acumen.

And my fisherman smiles back. A shy, genuine smile. With a nod he reaches behind him into the skillet, selects a single shrimp, and offers it up to me.

The fruit of his labor, a gift of friendship and welcome that transcends the language barrier, he offers me a little piece of Norwegian tradition that has provided his livelihood for roughly 60 years.

Accepting the shrimp with my own timid smile, I raise it to eye level and contemplate my next move. The shrimp stares straight back at me ­- eyes, rostrum, antennae and all. I have never shelled a shrimp before, let alone ripped the head off of one. The only difference between this little guy in my hand and his friends still swimmingly contently in the fjord is that the heat of the skillet has turned his body from a dull ashen gray to a zesty paprika color.

I think for a few seconds, ponder how to preserve this shrimp as a memento, promptly discard the idea as impossible (and bizarre), and settle for gracefully holding the shrimp in hand, as I smile uneasily.

He chuckles, retrieves the shrimp, and deftly decapitates it, discarding the shell. He returns the delicacy to my still outstretched hand, while enjoying my bemused look, and motions me to eat. I comply.

Witnessing a master at his craft, I confidently purchase a half-liter of shrimp, and I swear to myself that before my return to Middlebury in January, I will be an accomplished "shrimp sheller." Dinner, anyone?