Couchsurfing in an inclusive community. Norway. Summer 2024

When I first started traveling alone, one of my initial destinations was Venice. As I wandered through the city’s intricate maze of canals, I often wondered what lay behind those red brick walls and arched windows. I wasn’t curious about the exquisite palazzi converted into luxury hotels. I wanted to know how Venetians lived: what their apartments looked like, where they ran their daily chores, and when they ate breakfast and dinner. Without living with the locals, the city seemed to lack a human touch. Fortunately, I have since discovered several hospitality exchange platforms and began traveling for people, not places. Sightseeing has almost completely lost its appeal for me and my partner. We’ve seen Petra and Angkor Wat, but our most memorable moments come from staying with locals and hitchhiking.

That day in Norway, we were on the way to meet our couchsurfing host. Her address mentioned a place called Vidaråsen, which seemed too small for anyone to know. We decided to write "Andebu" as the road sign indicated and waited for our next ride at the exit from Tønsberg. Within ten minutes a car pulled up. We pointed out our destination on the map, and to our surprise the driver exclaimed with joy, "Oh, Vidaråsen, that's where I've lived most of my life!" During that short drive, his whole life unfolded before us. He had grown up on a small farm in Switzerland. Later, he couldn't find a fulfilling job as an agricultural engineer in the area where he grew up. One day in 1969, he gave his car to his brother and left the family home. Our driver had hitchhiked from Switzerland to Greece and then taken a ferry to Israel, where he worked in a kibbutz for two and a half years. After Israel, he returned to Switzerland, married a German woman, and they hitchhiked to Norway, to a village called Vidaråsen. "Because," he told us, "I decided never to work for money again." By then we had arrived at our host's place and had to get off, so his last sentence left us puzzled.

Hiji, our host, appeared on the porch of her house and came out to hug us. We'd been messaging each other for almost a month before our arrival, and our conversation continued smoothly and naturally. She is a brave young woman who managed to move from Azerbaijan to Norway two years ago. Could it be any more different? But she seemed to be adapting fine, speaking the language fluently and embracing Nordic traditions. Imagine hiking with snowshoes in the winter. Even to me, who grew up in Russia, it doesn't seem like much fun, but Hiji talked about it as if it was completely natural to her. In the room she prepared for us there was a drawing of the sun on the wall. Sevgi - love - it said in Azerbaijani. That's what Hiji brings with her in her warm, radiant smile, her bright chestnut eyes and her soft but confident voice.

From the moment we stepped out of the car that brought us to Vidaråsen, it felt like we had landed in a parallel reality. This feeling intensified as we walked around the village with our host. Colorful houses were scattered over a wide forested area, and each one had a name, not a number. We passed green fields where people were busy planting and weeding, but still some of them came up smiling to greet us. They were curious to know our names and where we came from. Everyone we met was engaged in something meaningful for the community, yet no one seemed stressed or in a hurry, whether they were farmers, cooks, or administrative and office workers. It may sound like an utopia, but it immediately reminded us of Samar. It was the only real kibbutz we visited in Israel, where everything belonged to the community and all resources were shared fairly. As in Vidaråsen, the people there seemed more fulfilled and happy than in other places. But Vidaråsen was even more unique. It was built around people with special needs and provided them with various creative and work opportunities to grow and develop. For example, Hiji showed us herbal, weaving and drawing workshops where residents could learn new skills or just do something they really enjoyed. There was not a single shop around, but there was a storage room with vegetables from the garden, and everyone could take as much as they needed. In the evening, we were invited to a communal dinner cooked with local produce. And afterwards we enjoyed a classical music concert organized as a birthday present for one of the villagers. What remained a mystery to us was whether it was possible to live in Vidaråsen completely without money. We'll definitely have to come back and find out.

We are sometimes asked why we stay with people instead of hotels. Here's why: it helps us experience something that's inaccessible to mere tourists. By the second day of our stay in Vidaråsen, we felt like we'd known Hiji for a long time. She took care of everything we would see and do, and it was precisely the way we would plan our day. Magical landscapes, local encounters and even the food were all sketched out. Together, the three of us hiked a narrow trail in the woods that led to huge cliffs overlooking a small lake. Sitting on flat rocks, we enjoyed the serenity and silence, broken only by the sound of sheep grazing in the distance. Below us, emerald patches of grass drifted on a silvery surface of water. It was different from anything we'd seen so far in Norway. On the map that spot was marked as a nameless viewpoint probably known only to the locals. For us it became a poetic anchor - a memory etched into the fabric of that remarkable day.

The next stop in our itinerary was the town of Sandefjord. How did Hiji guess that we always escape to green spaces in the cities? It was so easy with her, we didn't have to explain anything. She took us to an urban park and we had a picnic lunch atop the fjord. We spent the evening with our host's friends, who had invited us for dinner. That's how we met a welcoming and creative couple of Norwegian retirees. In one of the rooms we noticed an easel with an unfinished painting and later found out that she was taking drawing classes. We also had the opportunity to listen to him play the guitar and sing. Their house was full of colors and had an entire aromatic garden on the balcony. The kindness with which they treated Hiji reminded me of my Portuguese mother, who used to be my family away from home. From them we also learned the most important Norwegian word: koselig. As far as we understood, it expresses the concept of feeling cozy and finding joy in small things. That is exactly how we would describe every moment of that day. Koselig! And without the miracle of hospitality, none of that would’ve been possible.