Torp, Norway Airport Fiasco

We spent only five minutes in Torp Airport on the way to Trondheim

When the early airport bus left the station, Kim and I were on the other side of town, staring out the windows of the train from Holmenkollen–the Oslo ski jump–listening to a woman chatting on her phone in another language. “That’s Polish,” Kim muttered, “I can pick out a few words here and there.” She glanced at her watch and crossed her arms, looked out the window again.

“We missed the airport bus,” I said, by way of apology.

Kim shrugged. “We’ll take the next one.” She was getting a lot more nonchalant about my fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants travel style. Or at least better at concealing her concern.

Two hours later, after a few rounds of charades with the locals, we found ourselves on the late bus to the airport. “It’ll only take an hour and fifteen minutes,” our host in Oslo had told us. You know, plus traffic jams and general slow-driving. I watched the minutes tick away on the bus clock.

45 minutes till departure.

Kim was sleeping in the seat across from me.

30 minutes till departure.

I opted not to wake her.

20 minutes till departure. We’d been off the highway in farmland for nearly half an hour. I wondered if we were even going to an airport and not some place where people disappear.

Kim cracked open her eyes and glanced at the clock.

I held my breath.

“I don’t think we’re going to make our flight, Hayley,” she said, a laugh creeping into her tone.

“Ehhh,” I said, letting out my breath as we pulled into Torp. “We can make it.”

The view from the Holmenkollen ski jump

We were off as soon as the bus came to a complete stop, my luggage bouncing as I tossed it onto my back. Kim’s rolling suitcase bumped along behind her like a kid on a banana boat. We’d checked in online, so we ran straight for the security line. It was miraculously empty.

I tugged off my shoes without untying them, tossed my bag of liquids on a tray and stood like a horse at the start gate on the yellow line in front of the body scanner.

“Come on through,” the woman said to me, voice slower than my feet. Kim wasn’t far behind me. We stuffed everything back in place, slipped on shoes, zipped bags, fastened belts, and began the race to our gate. 10 minutes until departure. A woman’s voice came over the PA, said something in Norwegian. Repeated it in English. “Last Call for Norwegian Flight — to Trondheim.” No time even to exchange a glance. Kim and I kicked up our speed and arrived at the gate, fumbling for our tickets. The flight attendants ushered us through the glass doors leading to the tarmac and locked them behind us.

Adrenaline-pumped, we climbed the steps to the plane, Kim’s rolling suitcase bumping up one step at a time.

We were greeted by a frowning flight attendant. He took one look at Kim’s over-stuffed suitcase and shook his head. “That’s too big to go into the overhead bins,” he said.

I glanced at the suitcase, then at the flight attendant. “It fit on Ryanair,” I lied.

“It did?” he looked like he didn’t believe me.

“Uh huh.” I tried to look cute and innocent. He wasn’t impressed.

After a moment of consideration, he sighed, resigned. “Next time you need to check it,” he said, turning away as we entered the plane. Kim found a spot and slid the suitcase into place without much effort. I stuffed my backpack next to it.

We plopped down into our seats, heart rates regulating, and shared a weary high-five that was more limp fish than satisfying slap.

As the plane taxied out to the runway, the two toddlers behind us began kicking our seats.

I glanced at Kim. “It’s only an hour, right?”

“It’s only an hour.”