One recent blustery Thursday, I drove to the Nordic Heritage Museum
with my mom and a tub of cashews. We paid $5 (suggested donation) and
settled down in a small classroom for Norsk Filmklubb, a film night and
potluck hosted by the Norwegian arm of the Scandinavian Language
Institute. “It’s a good thing the Norwegian alphabet has extra
letters,” announced Ed Egerdahl, my mom’s Norwegian teacher, “because
we are on plan Å!” Apparently there had been a few snafus
leading up to this particular film night: a snowstorm, a film without
English subtitles, and a backup film deemed too bizarre for Norsk
Filmklubb sensibilities. But patiently, Norwegianly, they had worked it
out.
I like thinking about Norway—about moving there in my early
20s (oops, too late), and working on a farm, and living in a red wooden
house, and paying a bunch of taxes, and having prettier hair. Maybe I
would pick up some whale meat at the fish market and, um, boil
it (?) and take it over to cousin Knut’s house for dinner where we
would all eat rice pudding, listen to Grieg, and talk about how we
don’t like the new king quite as much as King Olav V (not jolly
enough!). Then I would ride home on my reindeer. Or, you know,
something totally Norwegian like that.
I identify with Norway more than I should, really. The reality is
that I’m American, not Norwegian—but thinking about the Old
Country makes me feel closer to my maternal grandparents, who both took
off for Valhalla before we really got a chance to hang out.
Fortunately, Seattle is the perfect town for people like me who
are nursing sentimental attachments to far-removed Scandinavian
homelands.
That night, the backup-backup movie was Lange Flate
Ballær (or “Long Flat Balls”), an aggressively silly
road-trip comedy about aging Norwegian soccer hooligans. Grown men fall
down at the sight of boobs, a wacky alcoholic blasts the world’s
gnarliest farts, and everyone is good-naturedly weirded out by
Christians (in that sensible, quasi-socialist, Scandinavian way). There
are blowjob-related misunderstandings and much shoehorned
sentimentality. It was terrible and great.
The crowd, a friendly cross section of vanishing Ballard, laughed
and ate cookies. I took notes in my notesbog, which a pal gave
me for Christmas this year. On the front, it says “NOTESBOG” and then,
“Have you ever been to Scandinavia? There you’ll see a lot of beautiful
scenery and people living in lifestyles surrounded by their
favorite things.” According to Lange Flate Ballær,
Norway’s favorite things are pratfalls, fart jokes, and alcohol. I
guess I am a real Norwegian after all. Skål!
That “one-man welcoming committee” behind the bar is my son Gill,
and you hit it dead-on with the reference to “the Dude.” Your article
caught the true essence of the Alki. My husband, Gill Sr., especially
liked your remark that the Alki “doesn’t give a damn and
never will.” After 31 years, why start now?
Just for the record, it’s Taco Thursday. On Tuesday we have Wimpy
burgers, same deal—$1 build-your-own with the same guy in the
kitchen and Gill behind the bar. So come on down Tuesday. Thanks again
for keeping the Alki alive and well.
Cathy McLynne
I’m sorry for the confusion, Butch. Onward and upward! I wish you
and the Alki Tavern family a very happy New Year.
Alki Tavern, 1321 Harbor Ave SW, 932-9970
