Day 11: Taking the Rain from Edinburgh to Oslo
Edinburgh Haymarket at 6am is surprisingly tolerable – all misty silence and bright ghost-town charm before the caffeine-deprived crowds descend. I slipped out of the hotel room like a shadow in leggings, leaving Lark snoring softly and RaRa doing his best impression of a man who’d never heard of check-out times.
First stop: Starbucks Haymarket. Almond matcha? Check. Jazz music overhead that sounds like it’s being played underwater? Check. Temperature feels like 2 degrees but is apparently 8, according to the weather app I no longer trust. Check.
I panic-ordered an almond matcha latte because it felt too icy (what summer?) to order a Tiramisu Cream Iced Oat Shaken Espresso – the one I tried yesterday on a whim and am now one sip away from declaring my emotional support beverage.
The usual suspects were at Starbucks:
A student with long, shaggy blonde hair, forehead pressed against his grande latte lid, praying for sleep – even the double shot espresso is no match for his hangover and missed train home.
A woman in a caramel trench coat with baby pink nails, perfectly made up and sipping something non-fat because she doesn’t brunch unless it comes without calories.
And an older gentleman–possibly German, definitely unwashed–who confidently reached between my legs to access a power point to charge his mobile phone. His wiry salt and pepper hair brushed the lid of my matcha. On the mouth hole. That drink is now deceased. Closed casket. RIP.
Starbucks needs a Cluedo edition featuring the usual suspects
While I was beyond mortified, the could-also-be-homeless, could-be-German personal space invader did me a favour – now I could panic-buy the tiramisu beverage like I wanted all along. The sometimes-reformed germophobe within me definitely needed the emotional support drink after that encounter.
I ordered a babycino for Lark and a skim flat white for RaRa, balancing the tray like a hot milk Sherpa through streets now alive with herds of business skirts and suits, migrating from the station toward greener pastures – cleverly disguised as open-plan offices.
Edinburgh Airport: The Hunger Games, Terminal Edition
We’re flying to Oslo today. A 12:50pm flight — plenty of time for Lark to stir up a bit of airport mischief before we hop on the 1h 45m flight from Edinburgh. Basically, the European version of Sydney to Launceston, minus the kangaroos and the gold-class ego stroking.
We took a black cab to the airport and arrived with eight minutes to spare before check-in opened. If there’s one thing we’ve learnt about ourselves, it’s that we are not better people when we’re hungry. We are slightly feral, emotionally unstable, and prone to passive-aggressively whispering, “Well, this could’ve been avoided,” at each other near vending machines — a dynamic I was determined to avoid at all costs.
WHSmith welcomed us like weary travellers desperate for a cold ale. Except, instead of a beer, I scored a bag of cold chicken pieces — not proud, not ashamed. RaRa inhaled a pastrami sandwich like it was the antidote. And Lark? She pointed at a tiny ham sandwich plastered with cartoon characters and apple juice, with the urgency of someone about to invest half her inheritance. It cost approximately that too. Possibly more. But she clutched it like it was treasure.
Then promptly threw it at the ground. Even precious gems lose their shine, I guess.
Bag drop went as expected: my suitcase had put on 2kg since we left Australia. Relatable. The travel cot got flung into the oversized luggage chute, and border patrol waved us through like they’d seen it all, which, judging by the look in their eyes, they had.
Through duty-free, where we paused for the sacred traveller’s ritual: whisper-fighting over whisky. $50 for a litre of single malt in ridgey-didge Scotland? It felt illegal not to buy it. We googled allowances, weighed risk against regret, and mentally cleared space in the baby bag for a bottle that was definitely not milk.
Lark began to unravel by the time we started boarding — juice-soaked and smelling sweetly of apple, the kind that stains yellow like wee and raises questions in customs queues. A charming menace, she’d already won over most of the line with her line-skipping and hide-and-seek antics. Which is pretty impressive, considering no one got close enough to smell the juice.
The Norwegian Air host practically swooned when Lark handed over her passport all by herself. A wee-stained toddler who shares? Stop it. Nobel Peace Prize incoming.
The flight: koala poo hugs & cabin solidarity
Not even a poonami can deter RaRa
Onboard, we pulled off a full-blown costume change in seat 22B – before take-off, mind you, because Lark is a pro flyer now. She knows the drill. New outfit on, chaos contained just in time for the safety demo.
Then, of course, as the plane took off – seatbelt signs firmly fastened – she unleashed a nappy blowout of apocalyptic proportions. As soon as the bing bong signalled we could move, we made our way to the baby-change cubicle at the back: a narrow, air-pressure-compromised hellhole with a fold down table where where she slid downward like a frightened crab, knees hunched, eyes pleading. Her fear was real. So was the mess.
The nappy? Soiled. The change table? Soon to be collateral damage. In the end, I couldn’t bear to let her panic. So I went rogue: a standing nappy change. She clung to me like a koala while I attempted a mid-air, mid-turbulence bottom wipe.
It was a time.
The cubicle clean-up was somehow worse than her actual bum, but we emerged, breathless and only slightly damp, with our dignity mostly intact.
She cooed “Mama” and “Dada” as she snuggled back into us, smashing a bottle like it was happy hour and casually planting her bare feet on the seat in front. Thankfully, that seat belonged to a fellow new mum with a baby on his first flight. We exchanged the silent look of survival. Mutual chaos, no judgment. Just vibes and baby wipes.
The rest of the flight was blessedly relatively uneventful. Short, efficient, and low on tantrums. A true miracle.
Oslo arrival: trains, puddings & prams
Rain greeted us in Oslo, proving once again that the weather in Scotland is clingier than an ex with your Netflix login. Customs waved us through without a glance. We could’ve smuggled in an entire distillery and no one would’ve blinked.
Lark inhaled a raspberry rice pudding from the airport café like she hadn’t just eaten a ham sandwich the size of her face. Then we bought return tickets for the Flytoget express train into the city. It was fast, clean, and eerily quiet — like a very polite rollercoaster with heating.
We arrived at Oslo Central and immediately realised we were inside a shopping mall. From there, we navigated through ice-cold wind (summer, who?) and polished tile corridors with:
one baby,
two suitcases,
two backpacks,
one nappy bag,
one travel cot, and
a pram.
A logistical symphony. Or a hostage negotiation.
We eventually made it to Bob W. The room was warm, just spacious enough, and powered by sheer relief. We settled in with snacks and treated ourselves to the first two episodes of The Last of Us Season 2 – because what better way to unwind from a public poonami than with a show about survival?