Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse?

It is a sad fact that the older we get, the less birthdays seem to matter. Yes, there are a few benchmark birthdays that get people's attention. Turning eighty, for instance, seems to be worthy of note. At fifty, we officially arrive at "middle age." Thirty, we leave behind our youthful, jubilant twenties, and society at last concedes us some measure of maturity.

But, let's be honest. Few of us have or will celebrate these birthdays with the same excitement as when we turn ten (double digits!) or sixteen (driver's license!) or eighteen (emancipation!). The "important" birthdays culminate, at least for Americans, with the big two-one: at last, we can drink. Legally. In our culture, it is the last of the rewarded birthdays (I don't count renting a car at twenty-five as substantial birthday recognition).

I've watched friends and relatives age, many dreading the accumulation of years and acquiring a certain "age touchiness." (How old am I? How old do I look to you?! How old do you think I am???)

Others are just indifferent to the passage of time.

Both, to me, are travesties.

I made my first birthday resolution the year I turned twenty-one.

I was living in Buenos Aires at the time and had an American friend named Robert who was four years my senior. Robert turned twenty-five a couple of months before me and promptly launched into a deep depression. He warned me of the fate in store, speaking with reverence about the years spanning twenty-one to twenty-four, until:

"One day, you're twenty-five. And then you're thirty. And forty. And suddenly you realize you can't see your knees because of how fat you've gotten, and you're married to a woman who cuts her hair shorter than yours and lives in sweatpants." (Rob was drawing on the example of his parents, who, I think, had long deprived him of any hope of aging gracefully.)

I told Rob to snap out of it and stop being such a psycho. I resolved to be the anti-Rob.

Yes, I know getting old is scary. I feel it too. But come on! Everybody poops. Everybody gets old, too. I don't want to be one of those tortured souls who agonizes over the inevitable. Nor do I want to make believe the years aren't flying by.

Which is why, last year, on my own twenty-fifth birthday, I made my second birthday resolution: that I would honor each year by challenging myself to do something, well, challenging. Something that would both humble me and honor my strengths, reminding me that, no matter what my age, I am (and always will be) me.

Last year, I ran twelve miles on my birthday, a record distance (for me) and a feat I reveled in for days.

This past Thursday, on my birthday, I headed north on a solo trip to the "gateway of the fjords:" the city of Bergen, in Norway.

Not many people travel to Scandinavia in the winter. That was part of the draw. To spend sixteen days traveling alone, first through Norway, then to Stockholm and wrapping up in Copenhagen, seemed a good way to honor my step into "late twenties." And to see a completely unfamiliar part of the world, both geographically and linguistically, while I'm at it.

I awoke, on my birthday, at 3 am, to a call from my mother, wishing me the best, and reinforcing what my reveille was poised to do at the very same moment: sound the alarm rise and shine, it's travel time. I showered. Forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal. Unplugged my frigo, shut off my power strip, loaded up my pack, and set off for the half-hour walk (no tram at this ungodly hour) to the Chateaucreux train station.

St. E., as you know, is not a big city. Walking its streets at 4 am on a Thursday, I was reminded of this. The whole way to Chateaucreux, I must have seen no more than three people. All men. One intoxicated, as his choppy, uneven gait indicated.

St. E. is also, normally, not an especially windy city. This morning, however, a strong, cool wind blew through the streets, whipping my wet hair this way and that. Gusty currents tugged at items strewn about on the deserted streets. Dead leaves were pulled by the undertow over the length of entire blocks. Lion Candy Bar wrappers rose mid-air from the gutters. A plastic garbage can, left out for trash day, had been knocked over onto its side. The wind opened and closed its lid like a puppetmaster pulling strings to breathe life into an inert object. (This garbage can is speaking to me, I thought in my drowsy state. Something about the wind and the barren town pointed to a greater message, an omen, maybe. I have more than a few superstitious bones in my body.)

Ominous atmosphere aside, I made it to my bus on time and embarked on the very long (and multi-legged) first part of my journey.

My itinerary looked like this:
1. Bus from St. E. to Lyon Part Dieu
2. TGV from Lyon Part Dieu to Paris Gare de Lyon
3. Metro from Paris Gare de Lyon to Denfert-Rochereau stop
4. Bus from Denfert-Rochereau to Orly Airport
5. Plane from Paris Orly Airport to Bergen Airport

I felt pretty good boarding my plane a whole seven hours later. I took in every detail: the bright red color of the Norwegian Airlines plane, smooth-skinned and youthful air hostesses, their cheerful welcomes. ("Hi!" is, apparently, "Hi!" in Norwegian. One of the only words I can understand.)

And, of course, the signs on the carry-on bins, reading Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse? (My God what a magical language.)

The Norwegian Airlines Magazine had a feature entitled "Norwegian Masters." This was, quite possibly, my favorite part of flying to Norway.

"We all have our heroes - so do Norwegian. You'll find them on the tail fins of 15 of our airplanes."

Among the "Norwegian Masters" were such stars as polar explorer Roald Amundsen, skater and U.S. film star Sonja Henie, playright Henrik Ibsen, painter Edvard Munch, and composer Edvard Grieg.

Then there were the masters previously unknown to me. One by the curious name of Ole Bull (1819-1880) - "He is often referred to as Norway's first international star. He was a violinist and composer in the Romantic period and through his over interest for Norwegian folk music, he represented a central part in the re-building of the Norwegian culture after the union Denmark-Norway was dissolved."

The latter sentence prompted me to consider how much I don't know about Norway. (Denmark-and Norway were united?!)

I smiled and scooted closer to the window, anxious to learn.