Scandinavian beer and broken glass

It’s been my long-standing belief that when traveling, the right places to be—the places that feel like home—will find you, no matter where you are. If you let these opportunities seek you out, they’ll tell you a story of the culture.

In May 2014, I traveled to Norway and found myself at a crowded beer festival, which is worth seeking out if you’re traveling through Scandinavia during the warmer months. I’d been invited by a family friend to attend. ‘It’s just a festival,’ I thought as I walked in. ‘Like the ones in America—plenty of samples, food stands and crowds trying to find the best deals.’

Thankfully, my hasty generalizations of a different place were wonderfully wrong.

The festival was held underneath a sprawling tent, rather than being airy like I imagined. Once I paid my fare and filled my glass, I found myself gridlocked between Norwegians—tall, beautiful Norwegians. We were all close, packed in like the overflowing clothes in my tiny travel suitcase back at the hostel.

It was weird; the Norwegians I’d met on the street passed each other like ghosts. No smile, no eye contact. Here, they were animated. I wondered why.

I clutched my brew, savoring the tangy, chocolate notes of the alcohol through a smoky haze of cooked sausages and greasy fries. Sipping—not slurping—I watched people shuffle around me. Their careful movements felt like a dance among friends.

Suddenly, a burly Norwegian broke through a long-awaited opening in the crowd next to me. His shoulder caught mine. While the brew in my glass only sloshed over my fingers, his glass shattered at my feet.

The crowd hushed; I could feel the burn in my cheeks and hear the breezy ripples of the tent flaps above our heads.

Skøl! someone shouted, and the crowd broke into a roar, toasting to the drunkenness of their fellow Norwegian. One man standing near me, with a beard that surely put Leif Eriksson and his father to shame, turned and clapped his glassless friend on the back.

“Let me buy you a drink!” he called, and the two of them walked off laughing.

I quickly discovered that breaking your glass at this festival was a rite of passage. Only then were you drunk enough to be a Norwegian. Alcohol was the magic that brought these people together; it allowed them to forget their fear of close quarters and simple conversations.

I came to appreciate their friendship under the tent that night, and the memory revisits me again and again. Someday I hope to go back—and maybe earn a skøl of my own.