Two Pub Rule
Are you familiar with the unwritten “two pub” rule that seems to persist in Australian country towns? It’s a peculiar phenomenon where you’ll find two distinct pubs: one that’s the go-to spot for everyone in the community, and another that’s typically shunned, often frequented by itinerants and alcoholics. Strangely enough, this rule appears to extend beyond Australia, even to places like Narvik.
Curious about Narvik’s nightlife, I decided to venture out last night. My first stop was Narvikguten, drawn to its seemingly authentic, non-touristy ambiance. It turned out to be exactly that—a small bar with around a dozen patrons, most of whom seemed to be in various stages of inebriation. Picture a scene from an American western movie: as I entered, the room fell silent, and even the barmaid shot me a disapproving “we don’t like your type around here” glance.
Despite the unwelcoming atmosphere, I found myself committed after ordering my beer. As I sipped and nibbled on pretzels, the vibe in the pub hinted at an impending unpleasant turn of events. It was palpable—the anticipation of a later brawl brewing in the air.
Having swiftly finished my beer, I made my way to the more popular bar. Initially, it wasn’t as bustling as its reputation suggested, with around twenty people quietly enjoying their drinks. The highlight, however, was the unexpected soundtrack—ABBA Gold. It was a stark contrast to the past, considering that sixty years ago in Narvik, Frida was shunned as a “German Child,” and now her tunes were resonating through the jukebox.
As I leisurely sipped my beer, I observed the diverse crowd, which remained relatively sparse until around eleven-thirty. That’s when the scene transformed. Suddenly, hundreds of previously unseen young people in Narvik flocked to Kaffeteria. The resemblance to an Australian country town was uncanny—a genial giant circulated, engaging in lively conversations and dancing. A hen’s night party paraded in matching “Tove Drikkett Up” t-shirts. Mini-outfit-clad, bleach-blonde girls enjoyed their mystery drinks. It felt like a flashback to “The Vines” in Berri in 1990 or “Choices” in Wagga in 1993—reminiscent of any small country town in the Western world.
Amidst the crowd was a local guy who had returned from Oslo, greeted warmly in a “welcome back home” manner. Accompanying him was a woman forever etched in my memory as “Muriel” (for obvious reasons), a former local seemingly forgotten by everyone. Additionally, there was the Oslo friend, intermittently shooting me curious glances with a “Where the fuck am I, and what am I doing here?” expression.
The quirk with the midnight sun became apparent: time becomes elusive. Around ten o’clock, I passed a group enjoying a dinner party in broad daylight—how did they gauge the hour without checking their watches? Strolling home at one in the morning still presented broad daylight. In Sydney, such a journey after a night out would be deemed a “walk of shame,” but here, it’s just routine. Renovation work on the street persists until ten each night, a norm in this land of perpetual daylight and darkness.
Contemplating kids playing outdoors, I wondered how they discern dinner or bedtime. In Narvik, where residents endure six months of continuous daylight and six months of near darkness, locals must possess an innate sense of time.
Today was a day of absolute leisure for me. After ten days of active sightseeing, a break was overdue. I napped, penned letters home, and indulged in Sunday television, an odd experience with news slides accompanied by BBC Radio audio and a channel featuring sports teams lip-synching to hits. The extent of my exertion was walking into town to make calls, revealing the frustrating reality of Telstra’s international roaming limitations—receiving calls and texts, but unable to make any.
The weather remained splendid. A stroll into town demanded no more than shorts, a t-shirt, and thongs. While not the typical Australian summer, it felt more like late winter or early spring. The occasional sun intensified, gently warming faces. Yet, signs of a chilly night loom with more snow on the nearby mountain, prompting locals to bundle up. It seems like it’s time to head back south.
