The second I put the glove on my head to take a swig of wine, they knew I was one of them.
But, as author Dav Pilkey says, before I can tell you that story, I have to tell you this story.
Let me start at the beginning: 40 trillion years ago there was a big explosion. Imagine a water balloon popping on the head of an unsuspecting bystander and you’ll have a good idea about how this explosion wasn’t like.
That explosion created star dust that later became our planet, which froze over. Over millions of years, the planet thawed like a boneless, skinless chicken breast removed from the freezer to form the fjords of Norway.
Among those many fjords and North of arctic circle lies the city of Tromsø.
Now.
As any three year old can tell you, the arctic gets cold. But typically, in Tromsø it doesn’t snow this time of year. Tromsø is a surprisingly sizable town of 71,000 with a thriving tourist industry. As a launch point for various aurora tours, sled dog runs, and arctic boat expeditions, the city has ways attracted am esoteric crowd and earned itself the nickname the Paris of the North.
It was in that gem of a town where I stayed at the Tromsø Activities Hostel. The hostel, a set of two little houses, lies just outside of the main downtown strip and is the setting off point for this story.
After breakfast, a group of us from the hostel decided to go on a little walk. Now, temperatures at the time were not “arctic”–hovering around -2°C (about 30°F). With freshly fallen snow and light flurries, we set off. After walking around for the whole day, we stumbled onto a small park next to a high school that was just letting out.
In the park was a staircase–snowed in, frozen over, and begging to be slid down. So we did just that.
I don’t know where it came from, but after sliding down the snow-covered stairs–laughing all the way, something clicked with everyone. We started falling in the snow, making snow angels, pushing each other down. For a solid hour we were in that park acting like five year olds. On the way back I had a revelation–as did the others.
That was the first time we’d belly laughed that much in what had to be years.
Think back. When’s the last time you laughed–truly laughed? When’s the last time you participated in communal joy unaided by alcohol or music or prompts? The last time you had unbridled fun–uninhibited by ideas of professionalism or self-image or false ideas of maturity?
In that moment, we all felt like kids.
That same slap-happiness carried over into dinner. It can’t be said that there’s much to do on a Monday night north of the arctic circle, so we got some stuff together for some simple pasta and bought some wine and beers to share. At 16:00, we retreated into the warmth and comfort of the kitchen.
Inside, regardless of nationality, everyone felt safe and comfortable. Our bellies full of pasta and with nothing to do but talk the night away, the sillies crept back out.
It’s here that we return to the glove.
Me being the notorious bullshitter that I am, I made up a story about some (very clearly, obviously) fake Norwegian tradition about how upper-class Norwegians drink with a glove on their head as a sign of sophistication. Between that and the sappy personalities of the group, that idea was planted.
Soon, everyone was taking a turn putting on the “Norwegian drinking glove” and taking a swing from a bottle of wine being passed around.
Laughter rang throughout the house as we joked and talked, and tried our best to stay warm. Minutes melted into hours, people left and entered the kitchen shocked to see us still there.
Those 9 hours we spent in that kitchen were timeless. We tend to be open and silly around our friends, yes. But not as much around strangers. And yet every member of that group felt an instant connection.
In a small kitchen in a small house in a small town north of of the arctic circle, there existed for a moment an unforeseen amount of warmth. Where in most hostels that same wariness around strangers and ephemeral nature of the hostel environment itself combine to form a more transactional nature with human touches, this room in Tromsø was disconnected. United. Truly human.
This is where community comes into play. Since I was young, I’ve subscribed to the belief that community is best when built–intentionally, but organically. Some people are more naturally predisposed to building community–known in some circles as social connectors.
But we all have that ability to make not just a short-term connection; not just a friend. But to go further and create an environment of trust and openness.
The key to it all is to learn how to give everyone as equal attention as possible–bouncing the conversation around and not taking things too seriously. By joking and being deliberate to let every member feel included–that built community can forge incredibly strong bonds in a matter of hours.
Here, then, lies the big myth of humanity: none of this can be sold. Access to people can, at times, be purchased, but the tightest of bonds can only happen organically.
It’s those moments of innocence and childhood. The small laughs and big guffaws that unite. A built community can spend nine hours in a small kitchen with almost perfect strangers and make them all feel like a family.
And I’ll drink to that. All I need now is my Norwegian drinking glove.
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