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
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