View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

As I started my studies at the University of Oslo, I was lost and intimidated. The University is huge, more than 20,000 students at a campus on the outskirts of town, an area called Blindern. Most of the buildings are tall and people rush back and forth avoiding eye contact, which is the modus operandi of human interaction in Oslo.

To save money, I lived at home. I would ride with my father to his office downtown and then take the metro to Blindern. The avoidance of looking at anybody was especially noticeable on the metro because we were seated facing each other. Most of us had bags with the icon of the university bookstore, labeling us in the eyes of the world as college students. To avoid looking at anybody, the easiest was to read or pretend to read. (Of course, this was the 70s before phones to hide behind.) We would surreptitiously glance at what others were reading. Some read the newspaper, but most read books, mainly college text books. I chose my thick philosophy books, written in German because so few Norwegians read German philosophy that there were no translated books. I presumed that people would be impressed when they saw what I was reading. I could maybe even compete with those reading advanced physics or even Greek.

When exiting the metro, at Blindern, we all would rush out. I would act like the others, walking fast and purposefully even if I was a little unsure of where I was going and definitely had plenty of time. A whole group of college students in their early 20s or late teens rushing as one, no one talking or laughing. Now I realize how ridiculously we were acting, but we all ached to fit in. To not stand out. To be like the others.

Most classes were lectures. With 200+ students. Nobody took attendance. We had a curriculum and an exam date. Nobody cared if we showed up for lectures or seminars. I went to everything that was pertinent to my philosophy major. I was terrified of not passing the exams with good grades. I did get to know a few of my fellow philosophy majors, but we only talked shop.

Having done nothing but study and study and study, I passed my first terrifying exam in philosophy with fairly good grades. And I started on my second major, English. We all had had English in school, but since English is a relatively easy language to learn for Norwegians, the seminars and lectures for English were huge. I had moved to student housing just a short tram ride away from campus so I didn’t have to be treated like a child at home. In the dorms there was a little more interaction so I got to know a few more people. But I didn’t like that most socializations were fueled by alcohol. 

I was just exiting one of the huge lecture halls, when I bumped into a red-headed girl with a worried expression on her face. I threw off my mask, introduced myself and invited her to join me for lunch. I found out that Anne had just started at the university and was as terrified and intimidated as I had been. The lunch lasted all day. We both talked and talked, no barriers, no masks. Anne and Hege. Always together. And sometimes included other girls and later boys.

As the years passed, we still wrote letters at Christmas. She now is an almost retired psychologist and she worried when she didn’t hear from me at Christmas. So she looked me up online and found out about Erland. And we have emailed each other almost every day since. And I can be honest and maskless with her again. It feels so good.