When travelling or moving to a new country, I like to try to get to know it well, getting under the surface and connecting by trying to behave like a local, learn the language or attempt to understand it by being very enthusiastic about and interested in the history, culture and geography. When living in France I studied French and tried to be like a snooty Parisian, watched French films, read and wrote about seminal French writers like Stendhal, and worked hard on looking seriously in thought over La Libération, Le Magazine Littéraire and a glass of wine. In Dublin, I sat in pubs with pints of Guinness and servings of bangers and mash, went on road trips to Leitrim and Cork, I picked up a random Irish accent and got nowhere learning Gaeilge for a year and a half. In Scotland so far, while not attempting to start Scots lessons just yet, I have read a busload of Ian Rankin books, listened to The Vale of Atholl Pipe Band and had at least one pleasant meal of haggis, neeps and tatties. My integration scheme has also been fast forwarded by getting proper Scottish blood running through my veins, possibly resulting in a refusal to pay any extortionate amount to go home for Christmas (in turn leading to some twisted, but cheaper, travel plans, thanks to Skyscanner.net and their genius price comparison systems).
Almost a month after arriving in Scotland, and only a week after starting my new job – which I love, so far, although I have really not been able to work enough to completely get my head around everything, something I am truly sorry for! – my body decided that a medical emergency would be just the thing to get me settled properly. Off I went, then, in agony, first to our new excellent GPs, which we found randomly in the old trusted phone book (as we still did not have our Virgin Media internet installed, thank you very much for the delay, grrr) and who helpfully got us registered quickly and I want to say painlessly, but that would be a blatant lie. The consultation was great, and free, the referral to the hospital simple and efficient, and when we got to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh (I love hospitals with proper, posh-sounding names!), they were absolutely amazing there too:
“A spot of bother you say? We’ll cut you up and sew you back together, no problem. We’ll also be very professional, exceptionally friendly, helpful and competent, and make sure you are comfortable in every possible way we can. And it will all be free, even the drugs and the blood we kindly bestow upon you in exchange for all that of your own that you lost throughout this nonsense.” Scottish doctors and health staff (including the Irish, American, Indian and English ones who work here) are possibly the best ones I have ever met – and I’ve met a few. The nursing staff work 12,5 hour shifts, which is unbelievably long, but they are still insanely friendly, compassionate and knowledgeable. The hospital buildings are clean, modern, warm and spacious. I had a single room for my whole stay, and although the food wasn’t amazing, it was nutritious, healthy and generous.
And here, dear Norway (and Ireland, for that matter), is the real kicker: Even though I have not paid a single penny in taxes, even if I did not even yet have a National Insurance Number (PPS number/Social Security number/personnummer), treating me for free was the least they could do. For six days the NHS paid for my bed, my food (when they finally allowed me to eat, although I guess the intravenous stuff counts too), my care and my comfort. The scar might even be turning out to be almost invisible. I know there are debates about the NHS, but this is seriously the best health scheme I can think of. It also seems the Scottish way of running hospitals, more as smaller, independent units than giant factory machines we seem to prepare in Norway, are even more cost effective, as well as providing better care. And did I mention I was treated for free?
Imagine my joy, then, when I finally come home from hospital, stitched up and with less blood than I started out with, and find a significant bill (and I mean significant, we are talking several months pay here!) from the Norwegian government for taxes owed them. Taxes, what taxes? Tax on money I earned in Ireland, and for which I paid tax in full to Ireland. That should be enough, surely? No, Norway insists that I pay them taxes too – in addition to whatever I pay in my country of residence. They want to have whatever extra they ‘would have taxed me if I lived and worked in Norway’, regardless of whether or not I do live there. And it’s not like the money I have to pay will give me any benefits, like pension rights, health care or any of the other things tax payers’ money usually go to – no, this is just money I get to pay for ‘having lived in Norway for more than 10 years’. So, in my long-lasting recovery period, while focusing on resting and recuperating, one of the very annoying things I unfortunately have to do is fight with tax servants in Norway, which I can tell you is quite a bit more painful than being operated on in a nice NHS hospital in Scotland. I don’t necessarily recommend either, but I know which one I’d choose again...
Image from www.sxc.hu
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