When I moved to Oslo in 2009 on diplomatic assignment, the Embassy's housing office placed me in an apartment on the regal Gyldenløves gate (golden lion street). My upstairs neighbor was a petite older woman named Anne Lise, and she was nice to me from the start, often stopping to chat in the stairwell or waving to me in the neighborhood. As time passed, I got to know Anne Lise better as well as the rest of my neighbors. We did dugnad (periodic cleaning and maintenance of the apartment grounds) together a few times a year. We had an annual party around the lighting of the Christmas tree behind our building. We all knew each other and got along.
Enjoying the sense of community I felt with my neighbors, I decided one day to host a dinner party for everyone in the building. I printed out invitations and slipped one in each mailbox. There were less than ten families in the building, so a dinner would be a significant undertaking but not impossible. On the invitations I had distributed, I had requested an RSVP. Receiving no responses, however, I woke up on the day of the party and cooked as if everyone was coming. I knew that wouldn't be the case, of course, but I assumed at least some people would show up.
With all the cooking and tidying up finished, and the hour of the party drawing near, I nervously waited for my guests to arrive. Right on time, there was a knock at the door. It was Anne Lise, standing with a bowl of berries. As we enjoyed some appetizers and waited for the other guests to arrive, it soon became apparent that no one else was coming. Talk about embarrassment! I had one guest and enough food for a small army, and I felt so foolish.
Anne Lise, realizing what had happened, was gracious as always. I told her we could reschedule if she preferred, but she insisted that we continue with dinner. I phoned a few friends who didn't live in our building, and once they arrived, the four of us had a lovely evening. I learned a lesson that night, as an outsider American, that Norwegians sometimes retreat when someone comes on too strongly as I had done. I also developed a great respect and fondness for Anne Lise. It was that night she went from being the nice lady upstairs to being my friend.
Over the course of my three years in Oslo, we met for dinner or tea often. We shared many stories of both of our travels around the world, and Anne Lise was always keen to hear my impressions of Norway. I remember one of her crazy stories in which a lion attacked her fur coat in Kenya, thinking it was more of an animal than just the hide.
Anne Lise also included me in her syttende mai celebrations (Norway's National Day on May 17) which were always elegant and lively affairs.
I remember the day she told me she had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. She knew the outlook was grim, and she was sad to be uprooted from her home on Gyldenløves gate in favor of a building with an elevator. At the same time, she remained positive, presenting herself with the grace and dignity I had always known. Not knowing what to say that day, I gave her a hug. It would be one of our last.
I moved on to new adventures in different countries, but we kept in touch over the years. Then, after a six-year struggle, Anne Lise passed away.
Rest in peace, friend.
Enjoying the sense of community I felt with my neighbors, I decided one day to host a dinner party for everyone in the building. I printed out invitations and slipped one in each mailbox. There were less than ten families in the building, so a dinner would be a significant undertaking but not impossible. On the invitations I had distributed, I had requested an RSVP. Receiving no responses, however, I woke up on the day of the party and cooked as if everyone was coming. I knew that wouldn't be the case, of course, but I assumed at least some people would show up.
With all the cooking and tidying up finished, and the hour of the party drawing near, I nervously waited for my guests to arrive. Right on time, there was a knock at the door. It was Anne Lise, standing with a bowl of berries. As we enjoyed some appetizers and waited for the other guests to arrive, it soon became apparent that no one else was coming. Talk about embarrassment! I had one guest and enough food for a small army, and I felt so foolish.
Anne Lise, realizing what had happened, was gracious as always. I told her we could reschedule if she preferred, but she insisted that we continue with dinner. I phoned a few friends who didn't live in our building, and once they arrived, the four of us had a lovely evening. I learned a lesson that night, as an outsider American, that Norwegians sometimes retreat when someone comes on too strongly as I had done. I also developed a great respect and fondness for Anne Lise. It was that night she went from being the nice lady upstairs to being my friend.
Over the course of my three years in Oslo, we met for dinner or tea often. We shared many stories of both of our travels around the world, and Anne Lise was always keen to hear my impressions of Norway. I remember one of her crazy stories in which a lion attacked her fur coat in Kenya, thinking it was more of an animal than just the hide.
Anne Lise also included me in her syttende mai celebrations (Norway's National Day on May 17) which were always elegant and lively affairs.
I remember the day she told me she had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease. She knew the outlook was grim, and she was sad to be uprooted from her home on Gyldenløves gate in favor of a building with an elevator. At the same time, she remained positive, presenting herself with the grace and dignity I had always known. Not knowing what to say that day, I gave her a hug. It would be one of our last.
I moved on to new adventures in different countries, but we kept in touch over the years. Then, after a six-year struggle, Anne Lise passed away.
Rest in peace, friend.
