Friday, June 6, 2014

Couldn't stop imagining Norwegians on the street in Viking helmets.


View from the top of Oslo Opera House at night
Dozen carrots, Welsh cakes, tins of oily kipperfish, PB&J sammiches, and a small sachet of granola. I'm still traveling light n' breezy around Europe, but I have more food than clothes in my wee bag for four days in Norway. First time flying RyanAir, and I feel bad for the flight attendants as they roll out trolley after trolley of duty-free junk no one wants to buy ("it may be shit, but at least you don't pay tax on it!".

Just 1.5 hours later (I am still not over how close London is to the rest of Europe), I land in Rygge and make it onto the Ekpressen bus that takes me into Oslo. Norway at first glance is green, gray, and very wet. It feels like the Pacific Northwest, though it helps that Norwegians are obsessed with salmon too.

I was warned against Karl Johans Gate as the main thoroughfare for tourists and bandits, but the trade winds blow easy here, and I spend some time jotting and napping in the golden hour that just lasts and lasts. Packs of migrant women harass the Great White Tourist, but I slip right by with my Asian card. *slides it neatly back into my wallet* A knot of these vagrant ladies are coordinating with walkie-talkies, and I'm confused how the Norwegian beggar guild is stuck in 1997.

Oslo is warm heady lilac clouds at 8 pm, and there's a satyr shaking an angry boner and scowling at the children swatting at his endowment. I get my first glimpse at the food prices here, and the sandwiches in the bus station that are about to crumble into moist goop are being snatched up for around $12. What drove it home were the spindly little carrots about the size of my pinkie that were being sold in bunches of five for $8.

I essentially had at least $200 worth of carrots in my bag. Tesco, te amo and all for 80p.



I'm sleeping on the night train from Oslo to Bergen tonight, so I plan to just wander the city until it's time to choo-choo off. I come across a building facing the fjord-sea that would fit right into Detroit with its gorgeous art deco labor-sculptures, with hyper-blond Norwegian boys skateboarding off the worker monoliths.

The water and fish funk makes me think of San Francisco and a fisherman hops out of his boat to take a picture for me before asking if I'm from Japan. We both speak awful Japanese to each other, laugh about it, and then I'm off to fail at seeing the coastal fortress down the way.



Weird wealth disparities here as I see posh ladies clickclacking down the cobbled streets towards a Middlelander costume party while migrants dig through the rubbish bins for edible bits. Hoping for some air conditioner in the muggy air, I duck into Outerlands and find out that Friday Night Magic the Gathering exists in Scandinavia too. Sweaty nerd-space, and now I'm writing in the masterly painted Oslo Cathedral which is open all night as long as you don't sleep here.

I lit a candle, left a prayer in the hands of Jesus for friends, family, and me. Religion is like fried chicken, comforting and yet I don't think I need more of it.


I'm finishing a book while dangling my little feet on the slanted roof of the Oslo Opera House, eating Kaviar (pink fish goo in a tube, I'm classy like that) on bits of sesame flatbread. Couples are canoodling, and though I really do like the serendipity and freedom I get from traveling solo, I'm thinking about how it would be nice to have David here.

Not just to nestle and watch the sunset and cheesy shit, but there's something about getting deliberately lost in a new country and getting to share that with a partner-in-crime.


Somehow the train ride from Oslo to Bergen lived up to expectations, and the Norwegian overnight trains even furnish a blanket, eyemask, earplugs, inflatable pillowette. I take over both seats as my Dutch seatmate flops into the next row, and I wake up uncomfortably cold, surrounded by moonlight glaring off the snow everywhere. For the next two hours, I'm just snuggled in blankets, watching frozen rivers zoom by, interspersed with wooden tunnels and congealed little towns.



Bergen at 6 am was a lowpoint, just cold and drizzly. I do the Boxcar children face as I peer into hotels at actual smörgåsbord, but I'm really here to masquerade as a guest to pee. Lighter, I pick my way through the closed seaside carnival, probably for the national day last week. The UNESCO site of Bryggen are colorful houses when you really get down to it, and everyone in the downpour looks disappointed. The YMCA hostel finally opens up for me to dry and fluff up by the windows. Certainly no Flying Pig, and all is clean and quiet, everyone's suit cases are filled with tubs of peanut butter.


I throw down what I don't mind hostel bandits taking, and I'm off to hike to the top of Mount Fløyen. Leafy switchbacks with warnings about witches all the way to the top in my holey shoes, and once you summit, you can see the fingers of the fjord open up into the sea, little tanker ships and yachts just frozen with their wakes from this height.

Oodles of adorable Norwegian children racing up and down the hillsides. I wend my way down on my own path through what feels like the Oakland hills, cinnamon roll with custard in hand, and end up spending the evening brewing tea with some Scottish and Colombian backpackers on the hostel roof. Once insipid comments about learning Spanish off a cigarette pack started happening, I duck out since I have an early morning.


Asscrack o' dawn, the two Quebecois brothers and I make one last fishcake pesto scramble before clutching our Earl Grey mugs for the train station. This trip to Gudvangen through Voss for the Osterfjord has a sprinkling of Americans, and it's funny how there are clumps by affinity.

I love the little sphere atop the letter A in Flåm, little sun god font. I'm already antsy on this boat since we're in the middle of the intended attraction. Indeed quite pretty, but nothing beats the solid stout I have at the Aegir Brewery before naptime on the docks. Very viking bro place, and I'm amused that this beer costs 15% of my food budget.


The little train that speeds you from Flåm to Myrdal has everyone slamming from window to window trying to squeeze in shots of waterfalls. Kjosfossen is actually epic, though I can't believe it's someone's job to dance like a banshee above the falls to represent a Norwegian siren.

I get back too late to buy new groceries, but the free pile at Marken Gjestehus was baller. Full meal with dessert, and plenty to share with other people there. I've missed group meals like this, and my spicy pasta salad is a hit and a half.


The fish market by the hostel feels like the Ferry Building, albeit prices with an extra zero or two. I'm handed slivers of dark crimson meat, and it turns out minke whales are the only kind that Norwegians are allowed to catch for eatin'. The way our universe is put together, everything tastes like chicken or beef, and this is one of the latter, with a slight whiff of salmon. Tourists are gobbling down whale burgers, while I count through my krone and øre, ultimately deciding to lighten the load of food I'm schlepping from one end of Norway to the other.





My final meal in Norway is reindeer patties with traditional sides of potato, sauerkraut, and some kind of berry sauce, before I pop into Rimi one last time to pick up a mediocre Asian Pale Ale (I'm a sucker for lemongrass) and a fiskegrot (Norwegian fish pudding) to bring back.

A 4 am bus to the airport, and I'm back in London by 9 am for a full day at work. Airplanes are magic.

Next sojourn: Ireland?



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