Steve Greens, Steven Genes, Stephen Jeans–I’ve seen all possible permutations of my name written or pronounced by those unfamiliar with the soft lilt of the Flemish dialect. I’ve come to expect such mauling and quite happily lower my expectations for the sake of my sanity. Hence, in Oslo Airport, when the public address system announced, “Will Stefan Greens please go to the information counter,” I gladly complied.
Once there, I identified myself, but was met with a puzzled look. “You’re Stefan Geens,” the woman behind the counter said, glancing up from my passport, “not Greens.” I said I know, often people make a mistake when reading my name, but I don’t mind really, so what is it you need me for? She remained adamant: She had called for Stefan Greens, not Geens.
In the rest of the world, the ending of this story would have involved me getting upset about the petty bureaucratic fanaticism of a bored airport employee with no imagination. But in Norway, this story ends with another paean to Nordic efficiency, with apologies to Uppington, who will nevertheless be gratified to know that it makes me look a little silly. For, as the airport employee explained, Stefan Greens had already come by the information desk to pick up his SAS ticket to Edinburgh. She then kindly apologized for my confusion.
