#barnetog

This year was extra special because it marked the 200th anniversary of the signing of Norway's Constitution in 1814. Back then, before it became the Saudi Arabia of the north, Norway was the poor cousin to Sweden and Denmark. There were many wars with the neighbours, followed by unions with the neighbours, followed by more wars, periods of starvation and several hundred years of king sharing and swapping.

The short story goes:

Following the then united Norway and Denmark's absolute bollocking in the Napoleonic Wars (note to self: never side with the French), Norway was in danger of falling to Sweden. Norway would have none of that and instead declared independence, adopted their own constitution and offered the Crown Prince of Denmark the plumb role as King of Norway. The Swedes took this really badly and there was a bit of war after that and only a few months later, the two countries agreed that Norway would keep its constitution but would remain in a union with Sweden under the reign of a Swedish King. The Danish-Prince-come-Norwegian-King went back to Copenhagen, I guess. 

It strikes me as odd that the day is celebrated as a kind of liberation from both Denmark and Sweden when actually, real independence didn't come to Norway until almost a century later in 1905.

Details...

That said, historical facts are the LAST thing Norwegians are thinking about on this day.

The day starts early and everyone get dressed in national costume and heads out. If you arrived in Norway on the 17th of May with no prior knowledge of this festival you would think you had been teleported to the shire of Bilbo Baggins. Called bunad, the national costume of Norway is full on. Lots of wool. Lots of knickerbockers. Lots of leprechaun shoes. And capes. CAPES!!

If you don't have a national costume you still get dressed up. The dress code is pretty much how you'd dress for a wedding. Men in suits, women in party frocks. Designer sunglasses are mandatory even for the bunad clad folk. And everyone adheres to the dress code. That is pretty impressive when really, you're just going down the street to watch a parade go by.

The main event is the barnetog - literally meaning 'children train' - a conga line of little kids dressed in garb from middle earth representing all the primary schools in the region. It's one of the few national days in the world where the parade is devoid of military and is made up solely of children, marching bands and the king's guards (who incidentally use their bayonets as props in their spontaneous military drill style dance routine that they perform at random intervals in the parade).

We scored VIP tickets to sit and watch the parade from under the palace balcony so avoided the crowds lined up along Karl Johans gate. I even ducked into the palace to use the loo although I had to be escorted there by security. As privileged as I felt to be using the royal lavvy, it wasn't exactly the private ensuite of Prince Håkon...

There is no wet weather venue for the barnetog. There is nothing stopping that parade. Not even snow - which a Norwegian friend told me is much more preferable to rain. Lucky for me it was a perfectly sunny 24 degrees this year. That probably happens on average once a decade.

In Oslo, the parade starts from City Hall and marches all the way up Karl Johans gate to the palace where each group stops and waves to the royal family before moving on. There are about 140 schools in the parade so the royal family spend about four hours waving back to the participants in the parade. However cute those kids were, I was pretty over it by the time school number 14 rolled past so I take my hat off to the Norwegian royals. That is hard work.

Everyone dips their flags as they approach the balcony. It is a remarkably touching sight to see the pride and honour the Norwegians feel for their flag and country, especially for someone like me whose national day ignites a debate about what our flag should look like and for disinterested anglo meatheads to binge drink and punch on.

I don't actually know what happens in rural areas where there is no royal presence. They still do the barnetog but I have no idea who they wave to, if they even wave at all. I suspect they all just march to the local school and eat hotdogs. 

Somewhere around 2pm, the crowds start to abate and people descend on the nearest licensed venue to start the real celebrations. The lush grass of Slottsparken gradually becomes littered with plastic cups and the sky becomes dotted with poorly anchored helium balloons in the shapes of Disney characters. I actually managed to hang onto my Dalmatian balloon throughout the beer drinking on the lawn, navigating through the crowds, the pub stop and the bus ride home, only for it to slip off the string and slowly float to helium heaven about 20 metres from our apartment. That balloon cost my husband $10 and he apparently got at least ten bucks of joy watching the whole 'losing the helium dog' scene. He discretely chuckled about that for about an hour.  

The thing that really strikes me about 17 May is the diversity and inclusion with which it is celebrated. When I spoke to a person I met on the day and said how nice it was to have a children's parade rather than a military one he said, "Of course. They are our future."