Surviving the Bybane 101

What do you do when things on the Bybane get dicey, or, well, just plain weird?


We have all been there; from those horrible morning commutes, to the free choir concert that drunk students love to performing at night. Residents of Fantoft are all too intimated with it. But even though we have all faced these trials, the question remains:

What do you do when things on the Bybane get dicey, or, well, just plain weird?

Fear not. We are here to provide the solutions for navigating some of the bybanes most mortifying situations.

Day 1

Oh god. It is Monday morning, the coffee was not quite strong enough, you dropped your phone in a puddle while running to try to catch the Bybane, and as the doors slide open, you face a wall of sardines, er, that is—humans. Everyone looks on anxiously as you attempt to squeeze your body (plus backpack) into the non-existent empty space. Your headphone gets tugged out of your ear, and you fight the age-old law of physics stating that two things cannot exist in the same space at once. It is the dreaded 8:00 am morning commute, when everybody in the contiguous country of Norway is attempting to ride the same Bybane.

What do you do?

Rule number one, do not make eye contact; no matter what happens, it is absolutely paramount that you avert your gaze from any fellow commuters at all cause. If you do make eye contact, know that you have stripped that individual of their entire soul; the core of their being has been violated, and there is no recompense. In this situation, it is unavoidable that you will probably be closer and more intimate with these fellow commuters than you have been with anybody in your entire life. Accept this fact. Pretend like nothing weird is pressing into any part of your body, and avoid eye contact. Also, it helps if you do not breathe very much.

Day 2

It is an unexpectedly crisp, Tuesday afternoon.  You are heading to the city center to catch up with a friend about who hooked up with who last weekend. To avoid any elderly ears accidentally overhearing this juicy conversation, you have chosen the collapsible seats in the Bybane, typically reserved for strollers and people with more groceries than they can carry. Everything is going hunky-dory—until you spot them.

The stroller moms. There are two of them, chatting casually, each is holding coffee from 7 Eleven; seemingly innocent enough—until you get an eyeful of the strollers. These prams are ready for World War III. Equipped with all-terrain wheels, and a fortress of plastic shields ready to fend off even the most torrential hurricane, there is only one correct response to this encounter.

What do you do?

Run. Evacuate. Flee. They are coming for you.

Night 1

Crazy niiight at the clubbbb plus tequila shotss plus dancing like you just do not care equals, obviously, that you are famished. You do what any sane person would do: you buy a kebab.

But the kebab that you just had to buy happens to coincide with gasp the last Bybane. You look at the Bybane, you look at your empty wallet, and you look, lovingly, at the kebab in your hand. In an effort far too reminiscent to the recent refugee crisis, you decide to go for the smuggle (we have all been there, my friend). Covert gaze to the left, covert gaze to the right, you sneakily slide the kebab under your jacket. All is well, all is cozy. However, as you take your seat, inevitably facing backwards, two very important facts dictate your next move: you are still famished, and Fantoft is 20 minutes away.

The kebab simply cannot wait.

What do you do?

The key here is in really small bites. By wiggling the kebab up the collar of your jacket, you can accomplish two things simultaneously: feign a sneeze and take a little bite of heaven. For success in this situation, the dual-strategy must be executed until you reach home, e.g. Fantoft. This serves to give the impression that you have a cold, or allergies, justifying the number of times you have sneezed. Avoid darting your eyes around suspiciously or calling vocal attention to how delicious the kebab is. This could give away your secret. With practice, the kebab smuggle can be integrated into any late night Bybane commute.

Night 2

You have just had a night of revelry that (we will not tell your parents) ended at Tidi; you are not quite sure how the bartender remembers you, or who that guy with all the glitter was, but you are still kind of drunk and the world is a magical (rainy) place. You stumble into the Bybane with your friends, and are lucky enough to snag a 4-seater. Then the music falls on your ears.  It is the chorus of many drunk voices, rising above the prattle of the Bybane. They are singing the song of a thousand nights, chanting the rhythm of your drunk heart, and steadily pissing off everyone in the Bybane. Meanwhile, somebody a seat over is projectile vomiting near your feet, but, surprisingly, you feel a strange calm.

What do you do?

Sing. Smile. This moment, this kum-bah-yah, has created a bond between you and the Bybane. Join the chorus of the drunk. Lean your head against the window, and feel the Bybane. Embrace this connection. For, in this moment, you understand the Bybane. In this moment, you have become one with the Bybane.

Also move your feet; vomit is really hard to clean out of your shoes.