Berit's Blog

My parents had to know when they named me Berit that this would happen. Growing up in Minnesota, eating lutefisk and lefse every Christmas and attending Norwegian language camp during the summer, how was I not to think that Norway was the most idyllic place in the world?

My grandfather would tell me stories of how our family members left their mountainous Norwegian village for the flat plains of northwestern Minnesota, with great courage in their hearts and high hopes for a prosperous life on the farm. He and my grandmother traveled back to the land of our ancestors several times, and each time they recounted the majestic scenery, friendly people and high quality of living. I knew it was a place I had to see and experience for myself.

I studied abroad in Norway twice while attending the University of Minnesota. After graduating, I worked for a year at the Sons of Norway Headquarters in Minneapolis, where my interest in Norwegian culture continued to grow. After that, my desire to move to Norway was stronger than ever, compounded by the fact that I was dating a Norwegian man.

I moved to Oslo to study, look for work and pursue happiness. Throughout this journey, I kept a diary documenting the ups and downs of being an American abroad. I’ve decided to share a few of my experiences in a series of blog posts. More to come....

August: The Police Station
If anyone thinks moving to Norway simply means buying a plane ticket, they are seriously mistaken—as I found out first-hand. In order to obtain my student visa to Norway, I had to first apply to my nearest Norwegian Consulate General. After a couple months, they sent me a letter stating that the Norwegian immigration authorities had approved my application. Unfortunately, the process did not end there. Upon arriving in Norway, I had a maximum of seven days to report to the foreigners’ division of the local police station. Here my fate was decided after they reviewed my paperwork and passport.

Experienced foreigners told me to arrive at the police station as early in the morning as possible. Apparently, when the doors open at 8:15 a.m. an average of 150 resident hopefuls are already waiting outside. I arrived at 7:30 a.m. and found the line stretched around the block. Taking my place in line, I stared ahead to the man in front of me, whose passport read Somalia. He held his hands in his pocket and nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. I imagine the anxiety my ancestors experienced at Ellis Island to be similar to what this Somalian man was experiencing. For both of them, there is really no turning back.

After one and a half hours, I managed to get by the two guards ushering people into the police station. Looking around, I felt as though I was in any country other than Norway. My companions were Middle-Eastern, African, Asian and Eastern Europeans. I strained to hear another English voice and failed. A feeling of guilt came over me. These people were not in Norway because they love fjords and fish. They were forced to flee from their countries and now were attempting to obtain residency in one of the few places that might possibly take them in.

After another two hours or so, I was finally called to the window and made it through without a problem. The man helping me stamped my passport, smiled and said, “Vær så god” (“Here you are”). I marveled at how quickly that went, especially compared to the others I had watched—others who truly needed to be here.