Susanna J. Sturgis: Writer • Editor • Martha's Vineyard

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American Abroad

December 09, 2010

When they're headed off-island, some people on Martha's Vineyard like to say that they're "going to America." They're joking, or being facetious, or at least speaking lightly -- I hope -- but the words we use tend to take root in our heads so I just tell people that I'm going off-island. Martha's Vineyard is inextricably part of America, not least in the penchant of some of its people to pretend that they live in some other country.

When you're packing a passport whose cover is embossed with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA and the national seal, it's impossible to pretend that you belong to some other country.

My first day in Oslo, Lynn and I headed downtown from my hotel. Strolling along Henrik Ibsens gate (at that point I didn't know what the street's name was), approaching the Slottsparken -- where the royal palace is -- on the left, I was dimly aware of a huge building on my right that took up the whole block and was surrounded by a high black fence.

When I took this and the following pictures, on my last full day in Norway, it was almost 4 p.m. and pitch-dark. Lightening them made the details visible, but it also belies the blackness of the fence and the fortress-like weight of the building.

Keep in mind that this is in the embassy district, near the palace -- a dignified, sometimes elegant area much frequented by visitors. The fence surrounds the entire building. It was erected in the wake of 9/11 to deter terrorists, who are not much in evidence in Oslo. The controversy that followed its building has died down, but its statement to the neighborhood, to Oslo, to Norway, to the world, remains visceral and clear. It made me wish I belonged to some other country.

If a U.S. citizen lost her passport, maybe they'd let her in here.

Yes, Christmas has been allowed to breach the fence. But there were no footprints in the snow near these steps. This entrance is for show only. The whiteness of the fence is the product of reflected light.

When you walk down Henrik Ibsens gate, the fence shadows you like a basketball defenseman. He wants to keep you from shooting; you don't want to shoot, or look in his direction, or even acknowledge his existence. But your shadow is there, hovering, blocking, no matter what you want.

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