Landing in the Land of the Danes

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK -- June 22, 2006

It wasn't the night train from Oslo that did me in this morning. It was the unapologetic manner in which the train conductor blew off the fact that we arrived three hours behind schedule. Which wouldn't have been a huge deal. I can adjust to the quirks of daily travel -- it's a matter of being flexible and learning to think on your feet. But for my Danish host, Peter, who had risen two hours early and had taken a bus to meet me at my train platform, my absence was poor form.

I was frustrated with the train conductor, who no doubt was only trying to save face and avoid what would be a frustrating jumble of English-Danish explosions between us. Normally I am calm as a summer's day and carry off my frustrations with a fair amount of patience and poise. But I had been stewing in my sleeping compartment for three hours, watching out the grit-covered window with hope each time the train came to a halt, then realizing we were still somewhere other than Kobenhavn Hobengarden, Copenhagen's central station, the meeting place where no doubt Peter had long since given up on me.

Finally we pulled up to the platform and, feathers ruffled, I marched out into the chaos of the bustling station, my plan of attack spinning away as I counted out the steps it would take me to reach Peter and smooth things over. I hated the thought that this would brand me as a careless American. I didn't want to think that I'd already started out on the wrong foot with a stranger who had generously agreed to be my host for the next five nights as I explored Denmark.

I had met too many travellers, like the Vancouverite I chatted with for hours yesterday, who seemed to think that all the Americans he had met were slobbery, egocentric, closed-minded incompetents who were oblivious to their loud and ridiculous ways. It seemed to me that he was the closed-minded one, blinded by his own arrogance and able only to see that which he cared to see -- which was only to affirm his long-held belief that Canadians were much higher evolved than their next-door neighbors, the Americans. So be it, everyone is entitled to their opinions.

But among the many reasons I have attempted, wherever possible, to experience a homestay while travelling in a foreign country, is my belief that I can somehow undo some of the damage of the enduring "Ugly American" stereotype. That is, of course, is addition to saving a buck, and furthering my understanding of other cultures, and seeing a different side of a place than what the average traveller ever even knows exists.

After my pitstop at the ForEx to exchange my Norwegian crowns for Danish ones, I found an Internet cafe here and quickly logged in to retrieve Peter's mobile number. An email message from him seemed a bit on edge. Where was I? He had waited for me, but after several trains had come and gone, was at a loss. And the big one -- he had taken the day off to meet me. Guilt was rising by the second. I was mad at that damned train conductor for not caring about Peter's rearranged schedule.

I huffed down to the Tourist Info office to pick up some maps before honing in on a phone where I made the apologetic call to Peter. And I let out a sigh of relief as he understandingly accepted my apology. I guess I was expecting the pitbull approach, the likes of which Seb (my Paris host), clamped on me when I called him from some stranger's mobile after tramping around the Arc de Triomphe trying to find our agreed-upon meeting location.

So the story had a happy ending. I followed Peter's excellent instructions to take the local bus to his flat, and after several more apologies and some obligatory but enjoyable chit-chat, gleefully enjoyed my first hot shower in days. Two back-to-back night trains had left me feeling more than a little stale, and it didn't even matter that the shower was a drainage hole on the tile floor of the cramped bathroom, or that I had to hold the shower head with one hand while I soaped with the other. Some things just aren't that important in the grand scheme of things, you know what I mean?

~Melanie

The World Is Not So Small... Because the Same Rain Cloud Covers it All

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 21, 2006

I was so eager to leave rainy Flam behind and escape to the last place I'd enjoyed some decent sunshine, that it hadn't occurred to me I was heading into more of the same. By 6:30 AM my too-short night train had pulled into Oslo Sentrale, and my tired head was spinning as I tried to decide where to go from here. My camera batteries were both useless, thanks to my overindulgence during the Naeroyfjord cruise yesterday. And the foreboding gray skies were doing nothing for my muddled sense of adventure.

To be perfectly honest, the thought of wandering around in the rain was about the furthest most appealing thing from my mind. Looking for a solution to the camera-battery crisis, I searched all over the train station before realizing that free electricity in a country who charges $60 for pizza sounded about as ridiculous as eating spaghetti with a toothpick.

So, as my Plan B (and the only other plan I had), I trudged back to Anker Hostel where I had stayed during my first pass through Oslo less than a week ago, and asked for some charity from the attractive English guy standing behind the counter.

Ten minutes later, my camera battery was charging away quietly at the front desk, and I was curled up in the corner of a comfy couch towards the back of the reception room, timidly cutting into the Norwegian waffle with brown cheese I had ordered for breakfast. For 12 kroner (about 2 US dollars), I hadn't been expecting gourmet. But it became readily apparent that this undercooked waffle had been slapped together so quickly, the cheese hadn't even begun approaching melting point. It wasn't even sweating yet. The doughy waffles were no match for the strong, tangy, slightly sweet flavour of the mahogany-colored cheese, and I began regretting my decision to sample some "Local cuisine" before I was two bites into my breakfast.
It wasn't long before the angry clouds started crying, and I felt like crying with them. I had hoped to spend the day ferrying across to Bygdland, exploring the Viking Ships and Norwegian open-air folk museum, complete with a highly-praised stave church, which I'd seen in glossy tourist brochures. And I had been toying with the idea of splurging on a day cruise along Oslofjorden, kind of a consolation prize to myself for the disappointment that Flam had turned out to be. I had taken the Naeroyfjorden cruise yesterday and, damnit, even with the rain, it was still a beautiful sight.

But my heart had been stuck somewhere down between my ankles all day as I tried to flush the vision out of my head of mirror-smooth, sapphire-blue waters, flanked with steep mountains against a cloudless sky. It had just about killed me to leave Norway and the World Heritage fjords behind without having really been able to do them justice. Well, it wasn?t me anyway ? it was the crank, uncooperative weather that refused to do them justice. But I wasn?t about to flush even more money into Norway?s already-too-wealthy economy just for another rain-glazed fjord adventure.

So anyway. Now that the skies seemed to be plugged up with spitting, gray cottonballs, I just sat back with my brown cheese and waffles and sighed. I wished for a hot shower and warm bed, but knew I?d have to wait another day or so for either. I had a long ride to Copenhagen ahead of me, leaving on the night train from Oslo at 10 PM this evening.

~Melanie

Sail with the Seagulls, Run from the Wild Dogs

GUDVANGEN TO VOSS, NORWAY -- June 20, 2006

(continued) We laughed together as the gaggle of children clustered near our deck chairs threw bits of bread at the sea gulls trailing alongside the ferry. The gulls swooped to catch their meal-with-wings and then zipped up through the air as if propelled by some inner rocket. We oohed and ahhed as we cruised past cascading waterfalls, story-book cute villages, and mountain-framed fjord vistas that just left our jaws hanging open.

When I started shivering, she loaned me her thick woolly blanket to wrap up in, and I couldn?t help but feel comforted slightly by this stranger that had become a friend that couldn't help doing what moms just do without thinking. It made me realize how much I miss mine. Because I know she'd do the same -- give me her blanket and tuck it up around my shoulders and bring me something hot to warm my insides with.

At the end of the fjord adventures, we boarded a bus together to continue on from Gudvangen to Voss, from where Mary Kay was taking a train immediately on to Oslo. I, on the other hand, was sticking around Voss for the evening, when I would board for my midnight run to Oslo as well. As our bus snaked upward from the valley floor to the mountains, we looked over mountain vistas so dramatic, they reminded us both of Machu Picchu, Peru, and we both vowed that one day, we would be there, climbing among the ancient trails of the Andes. A few peppermints and ear pops later, we had exchanged emails and phone numbers and wished each other well as our journeys separated.

I left the station and walked toward the lake I had seen as we had pulled in to town. Since I had about seven hours to kill, I decided I should have plenty of time to circle the lake with my full pack. It would be good exercise, I told myself. Besides, I-ve been more or less sitting all day, and a good, strenuous walk will at least help me get some decent sleep on my overnight train ride to Oslo.

So off I went, strolling along the path running around the lake. It dead-ended forty minutes later, after leading me across a rickety bridge spanning a wide, rushing river several meters below, and taking me through a rather smelly part of town that I could only surmise was some kind of landfill or toxic dump. By the time I figured I had no alternative but to turn around, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a mangy, spaghetti-thin, soaking-wet flea pit of a dog that came out of the bushes and stood dead-center in the middle of the trail.

Remembering that dogs can smell fear, and realizing that was the last thing I wanted this animal thinking about me, I mustered all my anger and spat out, Get out of here! He seemed to understand, and took off, back into the shadowy overgrowth of the woods. I left out a sigh of relief and picked up my pace as I began walking back to town. But not ten minutes later, he emerged again, this time so close, I could see the foam dripping from his partially open mouth. Rabies. Now was the moment I regretted not getting that expensive three-shot series before leaving home.

With even more aggression than before, I barked at him again, and I levelled my eyes on him as he slowly backed up towards the woods again. He didn?t disappear completely, but with each purposeful step I took, I could tell he was keeping his distance. I was beyond relieved the lose him completely and continue the rest of the way back to the train station alone. Of all countries in which to encounter a rabid dog, I didn't think it would be Norway.
After such a warm encounter with Voss's welcoming committee, I thought it best to stay put in the waiting room at the train station, where I stuck my nose back in the quasi-romance novel I had traded in my Amy Tan book for back in Flam. It wasn't all that entertaining, but it had been the only English book on offer, and for the moment, at least, I was glad to have something to take my mind off of the slowly moving hand of the clock near the entrance. But try as I might, I was having some difficulty getting wrapped up in the pages of this book, as I had in The Bonesetter's Daughter and The DaVinci Code and Swahili for the Broken-Hearted. Reading, one of my childhood loves left long-forgotten, was quickly becoming again one of my favourite pastimes.

~Melanie

Sharing the Love on the High Seas

NÆROYFJORDEN, GUDVANGEN, & VOSS, NORWAY -- June 20, 2006

Do you believe in coincidence? Or is coincidence just the watered-down way we refer to the obvious but unexplainable occurrences of fate? Or am I somehow just a magnet for the slightly off, overly enthusiastic, and generally not-so-attractive portion of the male population? That all sounds a bit harsh, considering today's ending was far from charity on my account. But you have to admit, either the world is a lot smaller than you and I think, or somebody up there likes toying with me.

The day started off slowly enough. And I didn't mind. My body was still recuperating from whatever cold I had last picked up, and I was in no hurry to go anywhere, as the unseasonably rainy weather seemed frozen as if at gunpoint in the murky skies the seemed to stretch from one side of Norway to the other. Bergen I understood. Bergen is supposed to get a lot of rain. But Flåm?

According to the young girl who emptied my trash can and tidied up the ruffled bedsheets yesterday, Flam was supposedly the 6th driest place in the world (I find that a bit hard to believe, seeing as how there are more than six deserts in the world, and I?m pretty sure they get less rain than Flam, even in a good year? but maybe I misunderstood her. Maybe that was supposed to be the 6th wettest place in the world. Whatever. Does it matter? It didn't change the forecast any).

By 11 AM I managed to be at the reception to check out, and dropped off my bag in their storage room so I could wander around a bit and at least feel like I had made an attempt to see the place. For the moment, at least, the rain was at bay, and as I walked uphill toward the face of an impressive waterfall, I swear I saw the little pocket of blue sky peek through. Like someone had taken hold of the corner of a notebook page, and ripped it away to expose the sheet underneath. Come on, you can do it! I shouted to the skies. I just knew that any minute, that crack in the clouds was going to grow bigger and bigger, splitting open wider and wider until the blue sky pushed its way in. But it didn?t happen. In fact, things got worse.

Less than an hour later, I was done with my abbreviated hike, and lounging around the Tourist Office, trying to make up my mind whether to take the blasted Næroyfjorden cruise I had had my heart set on for so many weeks now, or save a couple bucks and just take the train back to Myrdal, seeing as how the forecast just given to me by the cheerful desk attendant was that the weather was only going downhill from here. I kept thinking that maybe if I kept asking God for a teeny weeny little miracle, He might grant me even just a few minutes of blue skies during that ferry crossing to Gudvangen. So I bought the ferry ticket. Because it was worth at least trying, you know?

The voyage started out fine enough. I scored a seat on the top deck, facing north along the fjord, and settled into the flimsy plastic chair that would be mine for the next hour and fifty minutes. I enjoyed some solitude and tried to ease myself into the mindset that, rain or no rain, this was an experience I was going to absolutely savor, until three minutes later, the seat next to me was taken and I had to kiss my solitude goodbye.

Her name was Mary Kay and, despite the fact that she was a middle-aged mother of two on-the-cusp-of-adulthood sons, she had more energy, pep, and zest for adventure than most women I know. Period. I listened to her talk, rattling on about her pilot's license and work with Angel's Wings, her 18-year-old niece whom she recently drove to a tattoo parlor, her husband -- stuck in Lillehammer for the day to deliver a presentation, who she kept trying to encourage to take more risks. (No doubt he was having a difficult time keeping up with her!)

As the wind -- and our ferry -- picked up speed, and the temperatures dropped, she disappeared and then returned with two steaming cups of herbal tea and some kind of sweet Norwegian filled bread that she had picked up for us to munch on. And as she kept talking, I realized that as different as she and I were, we shared this massive love for the adventure of travel. The being-out-there-and-doing-it kind. In some faraway place. With the freedom to stay and stay and stay. Not your package-tour kind of woman, neither of us. And it was so refreshing. There was something in her so alive, and I thought, yeah, I can hold onto this love. I don't have to let it die, ever. Look at this woman, as full of youth as if she just fell out of grade school. You would never know, looking at her, she was a survivor of brain cancer, or that just a few years ago she decided she was going to learn how to fly planes. It just made me realize that we all come in different packages, and that there is no way of knowing, if you don't take the time to peel off a few layers, what ties, dreams, similarities, passions you might share with the stranger standing right next to you.... (to be continued)

~Melanie

Flåmsbana and Blaming it on the Rain

From BERGEN to MYRDAL & FLAM, NORWAY -- June 18, 2006

Terrible weather had set in again. For whatever reason, my luck never seems to give out. I wandered Bryggen one more time before boarding the train for Myrdal, the end of the Eurail-covered Bergen-Oslo line leading to the fjordland valley of Flåm. From here, I bought my ticket aboard the Flåmsbana train, which descends a breathtaking 2800 feet in 50 minutes flat, carving its way through mountains and skillfully engineered tunnels to the sleepy town of Flåm, resting peacefully in the heart of the valley below.

I had entertained the thought of using Flåm as my base for exploring nearby trails, waterfalls, fjords, and glaciers, and my excitement for the portion of my European journey had been building for months. And yet, as I boarded the train in Myral, rain splotching the windows of my compartment, it was all I could do to bite back the frustration that was brewing like a dark cloud inside me.

The forecast was a disaster. Whereas I had more or less expected rain in Bergen (they average 275 days of rain a year!!), Flåm's rainstorms had come as quite a surprise. Flåm, situated at the head of Aurlandsfjord, and framed by tall, draping mountains, was by comparison supposedly the "Sognefjorden sunbelt." But for the next four days (three of which I had planned to stay in Flåm), rain would be my constant companion. I either had the worst luck imaginable or God really had it in for me.

So, I spent the next two days, instead of exploring the beauty of Norway's fjordlands, sinking $30 in phonecalls back to the States (it was Father's Day, after all, and my birthday, and besides, my Savannah-based brother was in town for the week, and who knew how long it would be until he and he had a chance to catch up again). The hours-long phonecall home almost didn't happen, which, after forking out big money for a phonecard that would only be usable within Norway phone, would have been enough to send me into quite a dither.

Fortunately, I eventually figured out the inane public phone system (which required a deposit of another US $2 just to place the call). So when an elderly couple started hanging around the phone booth waiting -- rather impatiently, I might add -- as the minutes ticked by, you can imagine I wasn't in any mood to hang up and call back.

It did get a bit ugly, especially as they didn't understand a lick of English. My apologies fell on deaf ears and were met only with the death stares of eye rolls of the woman who believed me to be the most insolent of phone gluttons. But I didn't relent. Amid the chilly rain that hung thick like a wet blanket around me, I was too wrapped up in the warmth of familiar voices to concede. So I made a few enemies that night. I'm sure it won't be the last time. But hey, I'm entitled every now and again, aren't I?

The rest of the two days I spent recuperating from the hours of missed sleep I'd rack up like a bad debt, curled up in my log cabin/dorm room with a few decent novels borrowed from the communal bookshelf.By the time my morning of departure came, I wasn't too sad to tear myself away from Flåm, but trying to be a good sport about the fact that Mother Nature, once again, had managed to flatten my high hopes and long-awaited plans. Oh well. What are you gonna do? I could have let out a few tears, but I figured the sky was already doing a pretty good job of keeping things wet and depressing around here, so I checked myself out instead, and headed off to the harbor for what I hoped would prove to be a less-than-heartbreaking ride along the Næeroyfjorden.

~Melanie

Hiking to the Heights of Bergen

BERGEN & ULRIKEN, NORWAY
June 17, 2006

Despite a very scary bed-next-door albino with a penchant for log-sawing snores, I managed to squeeze in a good four hours of sleep before waking to greet the day. Over breakfast, I met up with Mark again, my Canadian night-clubbing buddy, and we agreed to join forces for a day of hiking in the mountains above and beyond Bergen. My plans were a little more ambitious than his, as I was intent on bridging the gap between Mount Fløyen (which most people visited via a funicular that zipped them up the mountainside) and Mount Ulriken, highest of the seven mountains surrounding Bergen and no less than a five-hour hike away, on foot.
We started from the front door of our hostel and sidestitched our way up the rather steep mountainside, along snaking switchbacks, until we arrived at Mount Fløyen, were dozens of camera-clicking tourists had just emerged from the funicular, no more worse for wear. I, on the other hand, was dabbing the sweat from my face, and taking deep breaths to avoid, as much as possible, my side from splitting in half from the upward climb. Oh boy, if this was just the first hour, what was I in for?

It would have been easy to shrink down the day's adventure, by making a simple loop around Fløyen, and returning the same way we had come. In all honesty, Mark had no intention of doing the full hike. So I have to give credit to Gyorge and Alan, a Bulgarian and Brit that we encountered along the way, for giving us the guts to go on with the show.

Mark and I were studying a posted map of the interweaving trails we had found ourselves lost in, when Gyorge and Andy walked by. Flailing, and in need of a little orientation, we summoned them for some trail advice. Gyorge, it turned out, had hiked the Fløyen-to-Ulriken trail before and was planning to do the same again today, with colleague Andy in tow.Minutes later, we were climbing rocky rills together, hoisting our bodies up steep and pebbly inclines and gazing over moss-covered mountain ledges at the mirror-clear lakes pooled in pockets of the valley below. The surface of the water, at least from my perch several stories above, almost appeared to be liquid obsidian, the waters so deep blue that, with the combination of cloudy skies above, they nearly appeared black. And from the vivid images reflected so perfectly in the thin skin of the water's surface, they could easily have passed for cut glass.

We broke for lunch on one of the lake beds, and watered our parched throats as tinny bells of nearby grazing sheep tinkled in the rocks nearby. For hours we crested peaks and descended into valleys, following the continuous line of pyramid trail markers that kept us from veering too far off course. After six hours of breathtaking -- and strenuous -- hiking, we arrived at Mount Ulriken where, at nearly 2000 feet (642 meters), we stretched out legs out on carved wooden benches and sipped steamy drinks from a cafe table overlooking the city, fjords, and mountains around Bergen. It was one of those hard-earned moments of contentment that comes from knowing you accomplished something incredibly worth doing. The cool breeze and warm sun -- especially at altitude -- were welcoming as I washed warm hot chocolate down my tired throat. Somehow, I just don't think the rush would be nearly the same had we followed the tourist trail and taken the bus and cable car to the exact same spot where we now stood, sweaty, sundrenched, and sore.

We descended to the lower reaches of Bergen by cable car, a nearly vertical journey in a small iron basket, which took all of five minutes. After a gentle walk back to town, we sipped expensive beers in the garden terrace of Jacob's Cafe, four individuals from four separate nations, enjoying the easy-flowing conversation and common ground forged from our afternoon spent hiking together.

Against my better judgment, I joined Lucca later that evening for another night of dancing at Scottman's, only to meet up with the same curly-haired Norwegian. It's a small world, after all. At 3 AM, when the pub closed, he insisted on buying me a greasy cheeseburger from the McDonald's across the street, which as I figured bought him a little time to make sure we exchanged email addresses. I thought back to last night and felt a tinge of guilt at the thought that he believed me to be six years younger, but I rationalized that I was leaving Bergen in the morning, and what were the odds we would ever cross paths again?

Walking back to my hostel, alone, in the quasi-dark at 4 AM, it occurred to me just how safe the streets of Bergen were. And not just Bergen for that matter, but Scandinavia in general, from all reports. I wish I felt so comfortable traversing the streets of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania at such an hour. Even the Norwegian girl, so drunk she could barely walk without stumbling, would have been safe on her own, according to the locals I'd met who had offered their two cents. So I guess we weren't saving her from some horrible end after all. My body sore, and dead tired from a day of climbing and a night of rollicking good dancing, I was out in minutes flat. Even with the albino log-cutter next door.

~Melanie

Happy Birthday in Bergen

BERGEN, NORWAY -- June 16, 2006

Seven hours after pulling out of Oslo, I arrived in Bergen, once Scandinavia's largest city, back in the 17th century. It served its purpose well as one of the central ports of the Hanseatic League of merchants, and still today is a well-populated city, though not nearly the hub of sea commerce it once was. But the legacy of its Hanseatic influence is still visible in the brightly colored row of gabled buildings lining Vågen, the picturesque harbor along which World-Heritage Bryggen is located.












Over a mid-afternoon lunch in the kitchen at Jacob's Apartments (my hostel in Bergen), I met Lucca, a seemingly quiet Italian that suddenly turned talkative on me. We spent a few hours kicking around town together, wandering through Bryggen, the old medieval quarter. We managed to catch the tail end (ha ha) of the open-air fish market, as vendors were packing up their smelly spreads of bright-pink prawns, fillets of every size and shape, and hunks of the blackish, deep-veined meat that I learned was whale. The air was permeated with the salty stench of creatures of the sea, and I was saddened that I had missed the bustle of this place. Although the scent lingered, it was apparent that the action was long since over.Later, I enjoyed a chatty evening back at the hostel with Lucca; Nick and Mike, backpackers from Connecticut; Mark, a Canadian native working as a teacher in Orlando; two quiet girls from Hong Kong; and a couple from Germany who offered me the remainder of the elk sausage they had bought in town earlier that day. (Well, actually, I volunteered to take it, as nobody else seemed vaguely interested. After a few bites, I could understand why they hadn't finished it off themselves!) Lucca made authentic Italian coffee -- dark and strong -- in the miniature coffeepot he had brought from home.
After several hours of food, and conversation among good company, Lucca, Mark, and I headed out into the night to find some local entertainment. We stumbled across a Norwegian girl (actually, quite the other way around!), rather inebriated and barely able to stay upright as she walked across the cobblestone street in her high-heeled shoes. Mark and Lucca, being the gentlemen they were, swooped to her rescue, and she entertained us for the next twenty minutes with her uncensored talk (did she have a few things to say about Americans!) as we tried to find figure out what exactly to do with her.she seemed surprised to learn that I was American, as apparently all the Americans she had ever met were either fat or ugly or both. "You," she said, looking at me through the glaze of intoxication, "are really beautiful!" She seemed almost in disbelief that I could possibly fit into the same category as "all those other Americans she knew." Take that for what you will, given her state of mind. A few minutes later, she ditched us, ducking underneath a queuing rope leading to yet another nightclub, where she blended in with the crowds of twenty-something waiting their turn for entry. No doubt she had plans to continue her night of debauchery.

On our own again, the three of us managed to find a place called Scottman's, where for no charge we were allowed to saunter in and join the crowds of pulsating bodies jumping to the deep bass beats echoing off the walls. No cover was the catch, however, because once inside, even the cheapest of drinks would set you back a good 8 or 9 USD. But we shrugged in defeat, realizing that we'd find the same in nearly any night establishment we encountered. Norway's taxes on beverages are apparently one of its main sources of revenue.The night got better from here. It was one of those rare occasions of my life where I found myself in the middle of competing male attention. And for the birthday girl, it was certainly enjoyed. A rather tall and stocky Norwegian named Tret, with curly brown hair and rosy cheeks, donning jeans and corduroy jacket, begin sashaying me around the dance floor, as a mix of Norwegian and American Top-40's blared, bass thumping. Over a few drinks, we chatted like two kids on a first date, covering all the usual topics of conversation. Naturally, I told him today was my birthday, and when he guessed I was 23, I just didn't have the heart to set the record straight. It's not every day you get 6 years younger on your big day of days. I was going to enjoy it.As it turns out, Tret is a 23-year-old plumber who currently owns two houses and two cars, one of which is a BMW he bough from the States on eBay several months ago. It was after 3 AM when I walked back to my dorm, but sleep was still a ways away. The sun, which never entirely went down anyway, was on its upswing by the time my head hit the piillow. This had turned out to be a very memorable and, quite literally, the longest birthday of my life -- and unless I planned some future trip to Northern Scandinavia to see the actual midnight sun, won't be beaten.
~Melanie

Oslo to Bergen: First Glimpse of Glaciers

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 16, 2006

I took the morning train from Oslo, through the rugged terrain of southern Norway as it skirted across hundreds of kilometers, closing the gap between its eastern and western borders. The 470-km journey from Oslo to Bergen has long been touted as one of Norway's highlights, the best-of-the-best train journey, and a rare look at snow-capped mountain highlands, wild tundra, and glacial lakes that mystify and bewilder multitudes with their raw beauty.


Comfy in my first-class chair in a compart- ment I shared with dozens of day-tripping Norway-in-a-Nutshell tourists, I peered out streaky window to the scenery ever-changing just beyond the glass. I overheard the couple behind me as they talked of Virginia, and immediately felt a connection with these people I had never seen nor spoke to before. It's funny how you bond with travelers. Somehow you seem to belong in the same circle, as misfits in a foreign country, and age nor social class nor musical taste nor most other things that normally matter when choosing your cirlce of friends seems all that important.

It didn't take but a few seconds before I struck up a conversation with them. Otis and Susie, a charming older couple, were, as it turned out, from Virginia Beach, Virginia. They were visting Norway for the yearly gathering of the ... organization, of which Otis had recently been named President of his local chapter. After a few minutes of bubbly conversation, I let it spill out that today was my birthday. Not that I expected anything in return. But this day only comes around once a year, and I wanted to share it with someone.

Suzy reached into her handbag and pushed a bottle of mineral water into my hands. "Happy Birthday," she said with a giggly smile. Otis, eyes sparkling, warned me that there might be some singing later. I pretended it wasn't important, but secretly hoped that I'd leave the train later than day, having been serenaded by a few new friends. It just didn't seem like a birthday without a little "Happy Birthday" well-wishing.

As Susie and I talked on, Otis excused himself and moved to the front of the train compartment, where I couldn't help but overhear him talking in a low voice to the gray-haired group of tourists seated ahead. With his husky whisper, I heard him utter my name, and a few fuzzy details about my being a teacher, and taking a sabaatical to travel around the world, and finally, that today was my birthday. I tried to focus on my conversation with Susie, but the buzz of voices behind me was proving all too distracting. And then, with the stage presence and class you would expect from someone recently named as President of a prestigious service organization, he called the entire car to attention to deliver a birthday greeting. I beamed, a bit sheepishly, as a carful of strangers raised their voices to wish me a happy day. It was a sweet gesture. My mother would be proud.

~Melanie

One Day in Oslo: Vigeland, the Vikings, and Me

OSLO, NORWAY -- June 15, 2006

It was after midnight as I walked back to my hostel from the Internet cafe where I had just shelled out nearly $25... entirely too much, but considering I was smack-dab in the middle of the world's most expensive city, everything is relative, I suppose.


The sky was still glowing a deep blue -- not the dark of night, mind you, but a dimmer shade of electric blue which fooled my body's circadian rhythms into a false sense of sleeplessness. As I tiptoed into the dorm room I shared with five other girls, I heard their snores and realized that somehow, despite the glow emanating from the curtained window, they had managed to find sleep. Trying to keep my movements to a minimum, I settled into my silk sheets and tried to focus my energy -- without focusing too hard, since that would probably defeat the purpose anyway -- on relaxing my muscles and drifting off to sleep. It was hard work.

I thought back over my too-short day in Oslo, a city that, I had determined, was by all accounts I had read in my glossy-covered travel books, decidedly underrated. Yes, my wallet seemed to get lighter with each passing minute. Nothing comes cheap around here. And yet, between the silhouettes of tallships docked along the harbor, the buzz and chatter of funloving locals spilling out into the sunsplotched tables of outdoor cafes, the hypnotizing granite forms in Frogner Park, Oslo was a happening, and heartily happy, place to be.

Earlier in the day, I had paraded down Karl Johans Gate, the pedestrian thoroughfare leading from the train station to the palace. Fashion-forward boutiques and umbrella-lined cafes flanked the walkway, luring passersby to stay and look and chat away the afternoon. In a gazebo to my left, near a bubbling fountain, a military band blew brassy tunes into the breeze, sweeping dozens of listeners in with their well-time rhythms and harmonies.

As I approached the palace grounds, I looked into the faces of the young guards standing at attention, rifles positioned with precision. Behind them, several hundred uniformed soldiers stood in formation, marching in unison as the tune to a familiar song wafted through the air. I recognized it immediately, and had to double-check that it wasn't an American flag flapping from the pole. The tune of "My Country 'Tis of Thee" brought back a flood of patriotic memories, and I listened for a few moments, imagining the same marching drill to the same music, taking place on another continent not too far away.

I continued on to Frogner Park, determined to see the 200 marble and granite sculptures carved by Norwegian master Vigeland that draw so many crowds to this far-flung pocket of the city. I strolled down the shady pathway leading across a shallow lake, suddenly aware that on this sunny Friday evening, I wasn't the only one who had envisioned Frogner Park as the place to kill a little time. Picnic blankets studded the manicured lawns, and I watched as couples and families and groups of friends bathed in the golden sunshine meanwhile cooking up a barbecue on the cake-pan-size charcoal boxes they had picked up at the nearest market.

Everyone seemed so happy, so carefree, and seemed to just... belong there with one another. And it suddenly donned on me that as beautiful a day as this had been, I was without someone to belong to. I felt the discomforting void in my gut rising, that awareness of being alone that came and went every so often. Today, for some reason -- right now -- it seemed incredibly strong. I was here, surrounded by people, and yet feeling terribly disconnected to everyone around me.

I busied myself studying the range of emotion carved in solid mass, the life-size sculptures placed in a concentric circle around a tall, phallic-looking sculpture which stood dead-center. Vigeland, the Rodin of Neanderthal, captured with stunning realism a vast range of human emotions, embodied in the young and old -- a father with children, two lovers intertwined, a mother with child, the wrinkled faces of a couple passing decades of time together.

On my way back that evening, I stopped briefly at Aker Brygge, near the south end of Oslo, where the boats ferry passengers across to touristy Bygdøy Island. It was after 9 PM, and the sun was burning low and intensely warm in the sky, the light of a perfect Nordic summer evening flashing across the harbor and hillside. I was mesmerized by the pungent smell of fish and salt and sea water rising off the shore. A sailboat arrived at port, its sails deflating as it coasted to a stop and set anchor. In the distance, I could hear the cheers and whoops and hollers of the hundreds of locals gathered like penned animals in the roped-off park along the hillside near Akerhus Festning (fortress).

Traipsing up to the fence, I peeked in at the crowds, their eyes riveted to the theater-size screen where the Swedish team was apparently kicking tail against their assigned World Cup opponents. The smell of stale beer hung in the air as I walked along the fringes of the park past centuries-old buildings. I chuckled as I thought of myself walking among modern-day Vikings. And truly, they seemed to somehow still play the part, to some degree. I had seen a fair share of burly, grisly men with long hair and prickly beards, as well as beautiful madiens with blonde hair and slender, nymph-like bodies, almost all of which, it seemed, had a hefty appetite for hearty laughter and strong drink.
And then I was back, ruffling in my bedsheets, struggling against the still-setting sun for the rest that my body didn't realize it needed. Oslo had surprised me with my own range of emotions. Perhaps Vigeland and I shared something in common after all.

~Melanie

Discovering Skånsen

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN -- June 14, 2006

Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine -- the sky was cloudless and promised more of the same beautiful sun that had stretched nearly to infinity just the day before. We were quickly approaching summer solstice -- just one week to go -- and the days this far north were longer than any I had ever seen. I had read about an open-air folk museum just a ferry-hop away, on Djurgården, another island down and around the bend.

Skånsen, as it was called, was begun in 1891, in an effort to preserve the historical roots of Sweden by consolidating some of its oldest buildings, from all over the country, into one central village. Over 150 original homes and buildings were uprooted from their birthplace and transported to Djurgården, where they now rested, shaded with the leafy branches of indigenous trees, and filled with the every-day artifacts of Sweden's first villagers.

I spent hours wandering its shady lanes, leading from church to city hall to apothecary to worker's quarters. I talked with the Swedish workers (who spoke perfect English), dressed in vintage clothing, and carrying out the daily tasks of heating broth over a wood-lit stove, shearing sheep in a musty stable, and gathering herbs from a nearby garden.

Just feet away, hens and roosters clucked contentedly as they scavenged the fruitful earth for bits of food, and a couple of goats, finished with their mid-day grazing, lazed together in a soft patch of grass, their bellies moving in cadence as their glassy, black eyes looked me over. Here and there, along the footpaths, rune stones rose from the earth, these stone-carved panels from ancient times bearing the carvings, alphabet, and emblems of Sweden's earliest settlers.

Later that afternoon, I joined a gaggle of kid-toting parents as they followed a park worker from animal pen to animal pen. It was feeding time. Mother sows, with their squealing litter suckling away, hid near the sturdy fenceposts as if shy from the attention. A pair of brown bears bellowed up at the wide-eyed crowd as the worker tossed a few lifeless fish down into the ravine. A family of reindeer munched on grasses within their own little habitat, barely aware of the crowd that had gathered around them. And then, without warning, the skies blanketed over with thick gray clouds, and rain began to fall by the bucketfulls.

Rain continued to fall for the rest of the afternoon, stopping short just before the sky began dimming with the tease of sunset. It had been a short but enjoyable two days in Stockholm, and somehow, I managed to leave with my budget still intact.

~Melanie

Arriving in Sweden, Land of the Midnight Sun

STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN -- June 13, 2006

I pulled the pillow even tighter over my head, which was now face-down in my sleep-sheet-covered mattress, trying desperately to hold on to the thinning threads of sleep that seemed to be snapping all too quickly as the sun began its early ascent.

By the amount of daylight pouring through the window, I would swear it must be pushing 7 AM. But a brief peek at my watch confirmed a shocking revelation: it was three hours earlier than that. How could that possibly be, I asked myself, still groggily trying to push back into sleep mode. And then I remembered how the sun had seemed to burn until midnight last night. How even then, the sky remained a deep shade of blue, but far from the depths of midnight I am so accustomed to. I had watched it out the window of Sohail's flat, engrossed by this natural oddity, this day without end that prevailed over the skies above Stockholm as midsummer approached.

And now, with a slow bobbing motion, the Gustaf af Klint, hostel-boat and my home for two days, rocked me back to sleep, my eyes growing heavier even as my stomach registered the subtle movements of this aging ship in the waters harboring Gamla Stan.


Today had been a fascinating mix of old-world beauty, endless summer sunshine, shocking budget revelations, and enjoyable company. I arrived at Stockholm's central station early afternoon and, determined to meet my meager budget while traveling through the cash cow that is Scandinavia, I began the long walk to my hostel, Gustaf af Klint. The sun was bright and strong, and working my way south along the main street, I smiled at the sight of the slender, pointed steeples of cathedrals and buildings more vertical than horizontal.

I shared street corners with Swedish women so beautiful, I felt like an ugly packpacker weighed down with my fleece jacket and filled-to-the-brim backpack, my hair hoisted off my neck with a tortoise-shell clip, and my cheeks rosy as my forehead beaded with sweat. Yes, these Swedish women, tall and slender, hair so blonde it could almost pass for white, were beautiful.

So it surprised me when a Greek-Indian fellow by the name of Sohail, who had been admiring the sea view, struck up a conversation with me as I passed by. We spent the next hour trying to track down my hostel, which turned out to be on the other side of the harbor. But I didn't mind the detour; the harbor, lined with colorful ships, and the smell of seawater were a welcome treat.

After stashing my bag, Sohail showed me to a little Italian place with excellent thin-crusted pizzas where I ate heartily, while an oscillating fan blew its cool breath across my hot cheeks.

We spent the afternoon walking the streets of Gamla Stan, Stockholm's most scenic -- and ancient -- quarter. Warm-toned buildings and cobblestone lanes brought a robust character to this little island, attached to the surrounds of greater Stockholm by a series of connecting bridges.

Later that evening, we sat in the shade of a great cathedral, spooning cranberry ice into our parched mouths. The sun's rays were strong, even for such a late hour. And finally, after a warm, home-cooked dinner and a long gaze out at the midnight sunset, I managed to find my way back to my creaky bed and gather enough shadow in the corner of the dorm room that I could convince my body it was time for sleep.

~Melanie 6/13/06