Resolutions

She sits across from me on the electric trolley that meanders its way around clean and shiny Oslo. Her eyes are brown and wide and she’s probably 60 years young judging from the happy crinkles at the edges of her face. I try not to stare but her actions enchant me. Her hair is tousled, short and wavy, with dashes of salt and pepper grey. I marvel at how she appears – pleasantly, almost proudly- out of place up here in this cold capitol of Norway. White tennis shoes. Sensible black cotton pants. A painting of summer pansies emblazoned across her collared black sweatshirt. A tall tourist from the United States, she does not hide her map.

Across from her on the trolley sits a woman in her 20s, a university aged student, donning a plum colored headscarf that accents her olive hued skin. Muslims migrated to Oslo late in the game by immigration standards but now make up 3% of the city’s population. There are cultural controversies here – the hajib is banned in schools and tensions run high at times.

The American notices the headscarf and the woman underneath. Without hesitation she smiles shyly at the young girl and gestures with one hand that it’s hot. The girl’s eyes dart away confusedly until she gazes back at the American. After all, it’s summer here. Even as the sun’s rays stretch up high into the northern latitudes it’s still cool in Oslo, though indeed the trolley is steamy warm. Passengers unzip their jackets and settle in for the ride.

Again, the American tries to communicate using universal symbols. With her hand she mimics the wrapping of a headscarf around an imaginary face and then repeats the “it’s hot” gesture, flapping her fingers up and down three times. (It must be hot because of your headscarf, she suggests). And then suddenly, the girl interprets the gestures, and simply smiles in return.

I watch the whole affair from my vantage. It’s a moment free of pretense or politics or judgment and I cannot help but feel proud of this Yankee seated in a trolley in the middle of Scandinavia not trying so hard to fit into this foreign world. She is fearless. And curious. She asks practical questions of people in a complex world. Are you hot?

But then the American does something unexpected. At the next stop, some Norwegians empty out of the trolley. And she moves. She shifts and takes a seat across the aisle closer to us and casually looks down at her white shoes. I glance at Casey and see that all along he’s been watching the same scene.

But what did the young girl think? (Why did that American move away? Was it my headscarf that scared her away?)

Years have passed. I look down at Kiwi now, lying on the floor beside me in the shape of a pinto bean, and ponder these historic miscues: the faulty stroke in a conversation, an unwitting slight to a friend or stranger, bumping heads while picking up a fallen coin. I backed my office chair into Kiwi’s rump just moments ago and she wagged her black tail against the carpet as if to say “it’s cool”.

And so I’ve found a resolution, an elegant personal wish for 2010: the benefit of the doubt. I’ll dole it out in heaping, sugary portions for family, friends, and strangers just as Kiwi would.

To begin: the American simply found a better seat.