Stavanger by M S Nieson

I’d never flown into Norway before. My tickets had been pre-arranged, part of the package my wife had negotiated upon being commissioned to choreograph a new work for a dance company in Bergen. Beth had gone on ahead for a month of rehearsals, and I was to join her in time for the premiere. A dear friend of hers was the company’s artistic director, and she was eager to introduce us as well. At the time we weren’t yet married and meeting her old friends was a big deal. Perhaps a way of my still being vetted.

It was a night flight out of Minneapolis/St. Paul, where we were then living, due to arrive in Bergen mid-morning. With so many Scandinavians living in Minnesota, there were ample direct flights to Norway. I hardly even looked at my ticket. Instead, I took note of my fellow passengers at the airport gate, all hale and silver-haired. A handsome lot, I thought, neatly dressed in sweaters and practical shoes. Well-mannered, several speaking in the rounded musical tones I’d come to associate with Nordic languages. Beyond that, I didn’t know much at all about Norway.

Though I had been there once, decades ago with a prior girlfriend.Part of a three-week Eurail Pass trip that whisked us through countless cities from Scandinavia to Greece. We’d briefly stopped in Bergen, of which all I could remember were its steep hills and ring of colorful old buildings along a quaint harbor. Oh, and there was that ferryboat captain who’d chased us off from sunning on the top deck’s roof.

“I don’t understand,” he said in a calm if puzzled voice. “You’ve been asked twice to come down. Why aren’t you listening to my crew’s concern for your safety?”

Ah, the regrets of fickle youth.Of the entitlement of tourists. However, on this trip I vowed not to embarrass myself. I’d behave. I boarded the plane, took my seat, and secured my seatbelt, even paid attention to the flight attendant’s speech. As instructed, I also consulted the aircraft safety card. The passenger beside me smirked, but soon after we were airborne, he nodded off. I suffered his snoring without any complaints or accidental elbowing. Hours later and exhausted, I too finally fell asleep and dreamt of making that good first impression.

When I awoke, not only was it bright outside the window, but we were quickly descending.

“We’ll be arriving in Stavanger momentarily,” said the loudspeaker.

That must be the name of Bergen’s airport, I thought.

Once we touched down, I grabbed my carry-on and exited the plane. Following the overhead signs, I made my way to baggage claim and waited for the carousel to kick in. After fifteen minutes, I grew impatient, knowing I’d also have to clear customs. Beth and her friend would be waiting.

After another five minutes, I began to wonder why I was the only one waiting there. And where were my fellow passengers? That man with the irritating snore?The older woman across the aisle with the cat carrier on her lap?

I found an employee behind a desk.

“What flight were you on?” he asked.

I searched my pants pockets. “Sorry, I don’t remember the number. The one from Minneapolis.”

He consulted his computer screen, then glanced my way.

“Come with me,” he said.

See, I thought, there must be another baggage claim area. Following him, I soon recognized we were heading in the direction I’d come from.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Back to your gate.”

“What?”

“This is Stavanger,” he said.

“Right, Stavanger. We’re here.”

By then we’d reached the gate. He stared at me with that same perplexed look as the ferryboat captain’s.

“Just get back on the plane,” he said.

I reboarded, equally bewildered until I saw the handsome faces of my fellow passengers, now all staring daggers my way. Stavanger, I soon learned, wasn’t Bergen’s airport but a different city, some 40 minutes to the south. Evidently, this was just a pit stop. Because of my premature exit, the flight staff thought I might be a terrorist and went into emergency protocols. They’d started taking out all the checked bags from the cargo hold to search for potential bombs.

Eventually we got back in the air and arrived in Bergen an hour and a half late. By the time I got through baggage claim and customs, it was well over two hours.

Outside, I found Beth and her friend, who looked equally tired of waiting.

“So why was your flight so delayed?”

I looked from her to her old friend.

“Oh, just some idiot. He got off at Stavanger by mistake.”

Later that evening, during a welcome dinner at his apartment among other friends, I suddenly felt hit by jet lag and promptly fell asleep on his living room floor.

How I ever managed to pass muster, let alone make it to our wedding on time, is still a mystery.