It's the 13-and-half hour rule

Hanging out here in Oslo on the set of L'Orfeo, Christopher Alden's third production of the show after stagings in Leeds & Glimmerglass, I'm feeling a little like the village idiot. Unlike the rest of the production team, I don't have duel citizenship in multiple European countries. My dad isn't a shipbuilding tycoon. I didn't just cut a CD. The cast is also confused about me. The Norwegians think I'm Norwegian and keep asking why I'm using this weird American-sounding accent. The Italians are convinced I'm supposed to be choreographing them.

But rehearsals are at a standstill because for the second time since my arrival in Norway, the country is having a national holiday. It's a little bit like Christmas followed by Easter. By the time I leave, it will have had a third. So it's more like Christmas followed by Easter ... followed by Christmas. Finding myself with another three-day weekend on my hands I briefly considered taking a plane to Iceland. It's closer than you'd think. But that thought was forged in the fires of the adventurous side of my brain, and the flabby, panicky side of my brain immediately gave a fearful little kick. So instead, tonight I sleep in Gothenburg, which sounds like Gotham, but is just beyond the border between Norway and Sweden on the Swedish side.

On my way to my hotel room tonight, I paused hungrily outside my next door neighbors' room where their breakfast tray hadn't yet been cleared away. It was close to 10:30 at night. It looked like they'd eaten some bacon and eggs. But the roll basket was more or less untouched, or so I gathered. I grabbed a roll. It's a little crusty but what the hell.