From Texas to Bergen: 22 Years in the Rain

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Here is my partner in crime’s own account of his experiences from when he first arrived in Norway and Bergen. Dave is one half of The Norwegian Experience.

Hi, my name is Dave.

Or “the American guy,” as many still call me, even after 22 years here in the rain-city. I’m sitting here now with a cup of coffee (black, like a real Norwegian pretends to like), looking out at Vågen where it’s pouring rain again, and thinking it’s time to tell my story properly. Not the polished expat version, but the real one—with all the blunders, the humiliations, and the moments I still laugh out loud about.

I landed at Flesland in the fall of 2004 as a true Texas boy. Cowboy boots and hoodies in my suitcase, big dreams and zero clue. I thought Norway would be a little adventure for a couple of years. Max. “A little cold, a little expensive, but cool,” I thought.

Haha. 22 years later, I’m still married to a woman from Bergen, I’m settled here, and I’m still asked “but how long have you actually lived here?” as soon as I open my mouth.

The Early Days – When Bergen Took Me by the Throat

My first encounter with the city was brutally honest. I was standing on Bryggen, soaked like a drowned rat, and a local man nodded at me and said, “This is some weather, man.” I smiled broadly back like an idiot from Texas and replied, “Sure is!” He just walked on. Welcome to Bergen, Dave. Here, we smile on the inside.

I tried my hand at small talk like the outgoing American I was. In the elevator. In the store. On the bus. People looked at me as if I’d suggested we hold hands and sing together. “Hey, how’s it going?” – “Good.” Period. End of story. I felt like a talking bubble that had gotten lost in a land of introverted poets. Now I love it. I’ve become so Bergen-ized that I get annoyed if someone talks too much in line at Baker Brun.

Food and Other Identity Crises

Ah, the food part. That was a chapter unto itself. I grew up on real Tex-Mex, buffalo wings, and soda you could refill until you burst. Then I came here and discovered that Norwegians put pickles on everything and sell cheese in a tube. The first time I tasted brown cheese, I just sat there staring at it. “Why… why does the cheese taste like caramel? Have you forgotten that cheese is supposed to taste like cheese?”

Today? I’m a disgrace. I keep a tube of Prim in my cupboard like a religious relic. I bring extra back to the US every year and force my relatives to try it. Some get it—they light up and want more. Most look at me as if I’ve suggested eating shoe soles. “You’ve changed, Dave,” they say. Yes, I have. For the better, apparently.

And skillingsboller? I still eat them with a sense of guilt, as if I’m betraying my Tex-Mex heritage. But my God, they’re good.

Language – my eternal humiliation with a twinkle

Language has been a roller coaster of laughter and shame. I took Norwegian classes, learned proper Bokmål. Then they threw the whole textbook out the window and replaced it with a dialect as thick as sour cream porridge.

I’ve said “I’m full” when I meant stuffed. I’ve shouted “Excuse me!” on the bus so loudly that people thought there was a crisis. And I’ve tried telling Bergen jokes that fell so flat that an elderly lady finally put her hand on my arm and said, with a teasing smile: “You’re not bad, Dave… but you’re not quite there yet.”

That sort of became my goal. Twenty-two years later, I roll my R’s, swear with “dæven” and “ærlig talt,” and can discuss Brann and Bergen politics in dialect. But that Texan twang lingers like a little spice that won’t let go. People still laugh when I speak. I take it as a compliment.

The Law of Jante, the Dark Season, and Other Bergen Delights

I have a love-hate relationship with the Law of Jante. When I got a promotion and told my colleagues, I got a “that’s great” and a sip of coffee. Back home in Texas, there would have been high-fives, beer, and “you’re the man!” Here? Quiet. Almost awkward. But you know what? It calmed me down. I brag less. I stress less. I’ve learned to enjoy things without having to post about them on social media.

Outdoor life? I laughed at that at first. “You go hiking in the rain? Voluntarily?” Now I’m one of them. Wool underwear, a proper rain jacket, and hikes to Ulriken even when it’s pouring sideways. Now the guy I share this website with is going out for a walk too. He needs it!

I’ve gone swimming at Nordnes and survived. Barely. But I did it.
The dark season hit me hard the first few years. I felt like a zombie with a headlamp. Now I have routines: a light box, After Eight as comfort food, cozying up on the couch by the fireplace with a good podcast while the wind howls outside. It’s actually become my favorite time of year.

So, what have 22 years done to this Texas boy?

I’m still an American at heart – I miss proper BBQ, that “American” energy, and making small talk without people thinking you’re crazy. But I’ve also become a Bergen native. I plan my life around the weather. I say “takk for sist” without even thinking about it. I complain about the rain and love the city in the same breath.

Norway has given me a sense of calm I didn’t know I needed. Life isn’t just about driving faster. Sometimes it’s about standing on Fløyen with a pastry in hand, looking out over the city while it rains, and thinking: “Damn, this turned out great.”

If you’re new here and struggling: It gets better. Buy a proper raincoat (not the one you find on sale), accept that you’ll never fully get the Bergen humor, and give it time. 22 years later, I’m sitting here, wet, happy, married, and at home.

Thanks for reading my little life story. Do you have your own expat stories? Feel free to share them – I read everything. Especially the embarrassing ones.

Cross-Cultural Life In Norway