timmyjimi

Until a few weeks ago, I had been part of the underground labor force, working illegally in Norway and making a reputation for myself as the Kvitfjell “Mexican.” This wasn’t because I had been dodging the authorities or avoiding the process of legitimately integrating myself via the expected process of immigration. It’s just that the process takes time, and only after several visits to various law enforcement and tax offices was I finally issued a tax card and the equivalent of a social security number. Without that number, I had been unable to open a bank account, get payrolled, or even register and insure my car. Finally, right before Easter, the paperwork came together. Now, I just needed to take a trip to the bank, make a phone call to the insurance company, and visit Statens Vegvesen, a.k.a the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Which is why I had a bad feeling when I got a phone call on the evening of March 22. I hadn’t had a chance to do those things yet, and on my way down the mountain after a late shift at work, a friend of mine was on the phone needing a ride from Fåvang. The bad feeling I had at this point came from a combination of circumstances:

Numero Uno) It was Easter. Normally, there aren’t a lot of patrol cars around these parts. But I had heard that they tend to show up during holidays, especially Easter.

Numero Dos) I started driving much more carefully and infrequently after a friend of mine convinced me of the consequences of driving an uninsured vehicle, even on the mountain. I had successfully avoided those consequences to this point, and now I was only days away from getting Snow White on the right side of the law.

Numero Tres) It was late Saturday night. If I was gonna see a cop, it was now or never.

Numero Cuatro) I knew I might not pass an alcohol test. In fact, I had even called up my neighbors who work at the hotel to hitch a ride down. But after getting no answer, I took the risk of driving home. Disclaimer: You should understand that I was nowhere near being under the influence. Much earlier in the day, I had a few tastes of drinks that had been accidentally prepared or turned down by the guests at Koia. Had I been driving in the States, I wouldn’t have thought twice about my condition, but the limits in Norway are next to zero. Even certain non-alcoholic foods can put you in dangerous territory.

So I was on my way down the mountain when I got the call, and sucker that I am, I didn’t want to turn down a friend in need. I made it to my driveway at the bottom of the mountain and heard the angel whisper in my ear, “Stop here.” I continued towards town. As I approached Fåvang, I considered parking and walking the rest of the way, but since it was what turned out to be the coldest night of the year (nearly ten below), I ignored my better judgment and continued the last few hundred yards to where my friend – and a parked police car – were waiting for me.

They nailed me for a headlight that has been malfunctioning for months. I replaced the bulb once in Oslo, but it still only works when it feels like it. That cold Saturday night, it didn’t feel like it. So I drove past the police car, into the parking lot, and went inside to get my friend. Five minutes later, we walked out:

Good Samaritan: “So, why do you think that cop is parked there?”

Carefree Swedish Chick: “Well, you know, sometimes people get into fights.”

We got in the car, buckled up, and pulled out. Followed immediately by the police.

Victim of Murphy’s Law: “I hate when police follow me.”

At which point, they flashed their lights, I pulled over into a gas station, and we waited.

Officer: “Førekort og vognkort, takk.” (…license and registration, please.)

Ignorant American Tourist: “Hello! “

Officer: “Oh, yes. You speak English?”

Fluent Norwegian Speaker: “Yes.”

I had to resist the instinct to respond in Norwegian or let on that I understood every darned Norwegian word he said. But I did my best to play dumb. Not that I expected to get off scot-free, but this was my maneuver of damage control. The ensuing conversation consisted of me telling him I didn’t have registration, him telling me I didn’t have insurance, me telling him I was working on that, and him telling me that it was cold outside.

He stripped Snow White of her plates while my friend and I watched him in the headlight, and he told me to park the car at the gas station. I wouldn’t be driving another kilometer without insurance, and though he initially offered to arrange a ride home (which was thankfully not appearing to be an escort to the county jail), my friend and I eventually found ourselves walking back to town to hail a taxi.

After leaving Snow White behind, naked and cold, the first thing I could do was laugh about it. I mean, I wasn’t going to jail, my car wasn’t being impounded, and my license wasn’t being confiscated. Plus, I didn’t have to take a breathalizer, and I didn’t even get a ticket. This whole thing was bound to happen, but instead of landing me in a heap of trouble, it was just going to make a good story. My enthusiasm faded as soon as the -10° weather permeated my jacket, or about two minutes. It took another thirty to get a cab, by which point I was pumping out jumping jacks to stay warm.

The rest is history. I had to manage a while without a car, but after two trips to Lillehammer and a $235 fine (yup, they got me), Snow White and I were reunited. I still consider myself lucky, and now I’m 100% legal. No more wife-beaters, no more Spanish accent, and no more black money. The next time I have to talk to the cops, they won’t even recognize me.