Fifty years ago today, I was a gangly 14-year-old, in Europe for the first time. I’d been dragged to the Old Country by a conspiracy of grandparents and parents solely to visit Norwegian relatives. I hadn’t wanted to go, and I’d arrived with a bad attitude. It was teen culture-shock: No Fanta. No hamburgers. But after a few days, I was wild about Solo (Norway’s orange pop) and addicted to pølser wieners.

I watched the Apollo moon landing with my cousins, sitting on the living room floor of t...