Day 13: Public holiday & don’t hop on that bus tour

I’d only been in Norway for a day and a half, but Oslo was already starting to feel like déjà vu. Somehow, we found ourselves doing a full repeat of the previous day: same walk to the coffee shop (twice), convenience store snacks, and toddler angst. Groundhog Day, tourist edition. I felt annoyed, mostly at myself. There’s a big city to explore, and we always seem to do this! Something had to change.

That was our cue. We ditched the coffee loop, high-tailed it toward the most interesting building on the skyline, and set our sights on somewhere—anywhere—new.

Minimalist monarchy: the royal palace

We made our way toward the Royal Palace in Oslo, which, to our surprise, had the energy of a very well-behaved Parliament House. Three stories, 21 windows across (I counted), and a few respectable columns at the front. Nothing ornate, no gold trim or spiky gates. One solo guard shuffled in place. Guessing what the building could possibly be, we landed on either Parliament House or a utilitarian library. Certainly not fit for a royal family!

What really struck me, though, was the parkland surrounding it: open, public, and actually used by people. There’s something quietly radical about a palace surrounded by families feeding ducks and children playing on statues of foxes and rainbows.

The $1 pastry and the duck rebellion

Lark had a pastry she’d toddler-handled from a convenience store earlier that day. Instead of letting her eat it (my goodness, this kid loves sugar), I figured it would serve better as wholesome entertainment. I carefully retrieved the bag from under the pram and tore tiny pieces off, showing her how to feed the ducks before handing her some herself. She squealed with joy, flinging bits at her feet, testing the bravery of the ducks.

One particularly gutsy crow – ash-grey body and jet-black face, Viking-level brave – stood far too close and reaped the rewards. Three pieces in a row snapped up: gone. Greedy bugger.

Easily the best $ 1 AUD we spent all day.

Onward to the Vigeland Park

On the way to the Royal Palace, RaRa swiped a Hop-On Hop-Off Red Bus map, generously laying out the best city sights. We inspected it like it was an anthropological artefact, promising lessons in Norwegian history with a side of modern culture. The bus itself was $90 AUD each; too far beyond our budget. But the streets? Flat, well-maintained, pram-friendly. Perfect for walking.

So we kept going, onwards toward the Vigeland Park.

Actual food: Los Tacos & a shared meal deal

We had a pitstop at Los Tacos and split a taco meal deal: three tacos (steak, chicken, and something vaguely Norwegian maybe mince, cucumber, sour cream, and corn), plus nachos. Of course, Lark commandeered the cheesy dip and unapologetically triple-dipped every corner of every chip.

Speaking of corners, the corner booth, the shared Pepsi Max, and the mid-2000s Triple J soundtrack were exactly what we needed to momentarily forget we’d just dropped about $37 AUD on one meal split between three hungry travellers.

While Lark literally threw her toys out of the pram, we inspected the Hop-On Hop-Off map like it held the coordinates to buried tourist treasure. Stretching our legs and absorbing the architecture felt like we were finally doing it right.

Enter: the Oslo ski man

Bellies full and back en route to Vigeland Park, a man on wheeled skis zoomed past us on the road.

Not rollerblades. Not a scooter. He had actual skis, one strapped to each foot, with skateboard wheels at the front and back, gliding as if the pavement were a snowfield. He propelled himself with full-length ski poles, arms pumping like he was in the Nordic Cross Country Finals.

No one batted an eyelid.

Oslo, you beautiful, baffling creature.

He wasn’t the only genius in alternative transport. Rollerblades? Standard. A side-by-side, foot-powered bike? Looked like two raiders in a stolen Kingswood riding in solidarity and partnership.

The Vigeland Park

RaRa had done some research and acted as a tour guide, sharing snippets of Norway’s history as we entered the parklands. It’s a wild place: dozens of stone statues, all weirdly intense and very naked. Big sculpted feelings everywhere. Like walking through a Nordic fever dream where everyone has impeccable muscle tone.

I wondered what it all meant, assigning my own interpretations. Shared a snort-chortle with another parent whose school-aged child posed gleefully under a very prominent dongle, demanding a photo.

Nearby, five women, all 50+, in bejewelled cowgirl hats, rehearsed a salsa-inspired routine next to the fever dream tower. Getting ready for the big show (which I later found out was a cultural parade through the streets of Oslo on our final day).

We split a Norwegian waffle (with jam, of course). Lark snoozed through this one. We spotted many other very blonde, very fair, very blue-eyed children toddling and shrieking in the sun. A public holiday + sunny day = Oslo family gold.

Out came the treasure map. Next stop: the Norwegian Museum of Cultural History.

Side streets, future dreaming

We wandered through back streets that felt like university housing painted in Nordic barn reds and yellows. We saw the Norwegian flag flying high, tried pronouncing street signs, and let ourselves dream.

Back in Australia, on a girls' trip to Gerringong, we met a ridiculously attractive 70-year-old couple who were in the middle of living one of their "10-year plan" chapters. That idea stuck with me. Nothing needs to be forever. Give something a good 10 years, and you can always move on.

RaRa and I know we want to build a house in the country. We definitely don't want to work forever just long enough to retire comfortably.

So, we decided on those warm Oslo streets: when Lark (and possibly a younger sibling - the IVF journey starts when we return) finishes school, we’re moving abroad and learning a new language. RaRa votes Spanish because it’s the third most spoken language in the world. I can get on board with that.

Folklore at The Norwegian Museum of Cultural History

When we arrived, Lark slowly stretched awake like an animatronic dinosaur from a Jurassic World theme park. We fuelled her with orange juice and entered the museum with just under an hour before closing (classic us).

The museum is mostly outdoors, with buildings from different eras: a medieval church, a wedding "party-house" (wealth measured by window count!), barns, farmhouses, and live displays of women in costume making flatbread. Sweet, warm, and delicious.

We did have one slightly creepy moment when Lark locked eyes with no one – and held it. She waved enthusiastically, maintaining direct eye contact with... absolutely nothing, as we walked down a quiet path. I looked. RaRa looked. There was no one there. Just a tree. Possibly haunted. Possibly not. Either way, she was delighted. Naturally, I chose not to investigate further. Some things are better left to the toddler-spirit realm.

Lark spotted the playground and sounded the car-alarm tantrum we know and love. Message received.

She later fell madly in love with a red Volkswagen Beetle at a gas station exhibit. Hugged the tail light like it was her favourite horsey. Blew me "goodbye" kisses when I tried to coax her away. This kid loves vehicles.

Bus antics

After closing, we’d been on our feet for hours. The bus stop outside the museum beckoned like a foot spa.

The bus was due in five minutes. Tickets needed to be purchased via app. With international roaming capped at 2GB per day and flaky museum WiFi just out of reach, I couldn’t buy one in time. I took the gamble. You rarely see transport inspectors in Sydney. What were the odds on a public holiday in Oslo?

Wrong move.

Ten minutes in, a stern woman in a fluorescent yellow vest started scanning tickets. I scrambled to buy one and prepped my "dumb tourist" speech.

She took one look at my ticket and knew I'd just bought it. If the timestamp didn’t give it away, the fact it was for a bus three minutes from now did. I also hadn’t pressed start.

She frowned and asked where I was from. I said, "Australia." She sighed, gave me a lesson on Oslo's bus system, and let me go.

I had paid the $7, even if it was eventually and under duress. The system kind of works...?

Karma struck anyway. We overshot our stop and had to walk 20 minutes back through a part of town covered in graffiti and barred windows. It had mild "get mugged" vibes.

We jumped off and made our way back.

Falafel is big in Oslo. So many cheap-eat falafel takeaways. I found a classic wrap for 69KR. Tipped 10% before they made it. I'd say half kindness, half paranoia about what happens if you don’t tip. But I think tipping a digital system for a service you haven't received is extortion, so it was 100% all paranoia.

Turns out, tipping gets you served first with a fully stuffed wrap. Not bad. Still too paranoid to know what not tipping gets you.

We dubbed that area the "Newtown of Oslo" – creative, student-y, full of live music bars and stand-up comedy.

The only mugging here was us for being so judgmental.