On our flight from Stockholm to Oslo we were greeted by a silver haired pursar who responded to our ‘Hello’ with ‘We are in Sweden now, we must say it in Swedish’ and proceeded to instruct us. When we got to our seats, Mom opined that Mr. Pursar was pretty scrumptious. She said she’d take him home with her, but she wasn’t quite sure what she’d do with him. C’mon, Mom, you’re 82, not dead! Connie thought it was a sad commentary that she and Mom had the same taste in men. Me, I know nothing…


Well, we’re a pretty ragged group, I must say! Mother’s wheelchair driver is sprinting through the Oslo airport, worried that we’re losing Connie. The cortisone in Connie’s knee hasn’t kicked in yet, so she’s creeping through the concourse, as usual with a smile on her face — but with sort of a ‘tears of the clown’ thing going on, and I’m between the two, trying to keep both of them in sight. I’m down to 3 of my 10 glue-on nails, and Connie’s suitcase was allowed even though it’s a few pounds overweight with what seems to be about a case of California wine in little plastic bottles. Mother always has her pre-dinner cocktail on her own terms. Anyway, whoever booked us with a 50 minute layover to claim bags in the international wing, clear customs, check bags in the domestic wing and make it to the gate needs to take another look at the airport map! Fortunately, the crack wheelchair team got Mom on the plane to Bergen, and you know that plane door wasn’t closing until Connie and I were on board!

Moose shopping, anyone?
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