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

Planes, Trains, and Hoofing Through Heidelberg

HEIDELBERG, GERMANY – June 12, 2006

This was one of those days where a little better planning would have probably saved me more than a couple of headaches. But sometimes, flying by the seat of your pants isn't such a horrible thing. Spontaneity is a must as a long-term traveller. And I can't help but think that after as hectic a day as this one turned out to be, I still came out further ahead than I would have if I had just stuck with my original plan. All things considered, I managed to pull off a pretty damned good four-hour stopover in Heidelberg, home of the famous red-stone castle, before catching the first of my train connections on to Stockholm.

I wasn’t originally planning to make the long trip by train. I actually bought a too-cheap-to-turn-down ticket from Frankfurt, Germany to Stockholm, Sweden on RyanAir’s website back in March, before even leaving for Europe. I figured I could work with the date – June 12th. It meant I had a good 2.5 months to work my way through non-Scandinavian Western Europe, and I felt pretty decent about that. And in the end, my timing was right on. It was just the fact that the airport was so way out there, I was going to need to catch a 5 AM bus to make a 9 AM flight.

And this baggage thing. Ryanair’s penny- pinching policies allow fliers to take 15 kg of baggage per person. And what happens if, like me, you’ve got a tad more? No problem, just pay an additional €8 per kilo and you’re home free. Well, after adding up all the costs and relative pains associated with taking this flight, I realized I would actually enjoy less hassles – and save myself a few Euros – if I just booked myself an overnight train instead. The only drawback? I’d arrive three hours later in Stockholm than my flight would have gotten me there. I could live with that.

So first thing this morning, I popped on over to the train station to arrange for my tickets. A few hours later, I was packed up, saying goodbyes to my German host, Daniel, and gauging my best plan of attack for what I knew would be a shortened day in Heidelberg.

For four hours, before catching my train to Mannheim, and on to Berlin (which was over an hour late arriving, and it’s a good thing I had a long layover before starting my overnight journey, or I would have been really screwed), and from there, on to Malmö, and finally, on to Stockholm, (whew! That was long!), I made the most efficient use of my time probably to date.

I stowed my bag in a luggage locker, picked up a map at the Tourist Office, and bused in to the center of Heidelberg, where I climbed for 20 minutes up the steep cobblestone path to the castle and gardens sprawling across the hillside. I soaked in beautiful views of the city below, gables and tall, pointed cathedral spires reaching up beyond the sky line, the Neckar River cutting down the middle, bridges spanning to the other side, and the rising forest beyond. I wandered (quickly!) along the castle grounds before continuing to the old town center, where university students keep things alive and modern.

Passing restaurants and sausage stands, I crossed the main bridge across the river, and climbed again, this time along Philosophenweg (Philosopher’s Way), a scenic path snaking up and around through the steep hillside opposite the medieval town, and offering gorgeous views to the castle and town. And without skipping a beat, I ducked in a market for some quick food for the road, hopped on a bus back to the station, and was on my way to Mannheim in record time.Heidelberg is no place to rush; there is plenty here to make for at least a full day of meandering enjoyment. But given my time constraints – as does happen when you’re whirling through Europe at twice the speed of life, I did a pretty decent job. That being said, I wouldn’t hesitate to visit Heidelberg again. Maybe next time, I can catch the sunset from that scenic overlook on Philosophenweg, instead of from my train compartment… now that would be something!

~Melanie

How to Be Romanced 101: Lessons on Lake Titisee

LAKE TITISEE, GERMANY – June 11, 2006

A brilliant blue lake surrounded by lush, rolling mountains, covered in the deep green of bordering-on-black forest. Schwartzwald. Titisee. The sun breaking the water’s surface into a million glimmers of spangles. Boats loaded down with day-trippers, scuttling off into the deep center of the lake, pampering each guest with cooling breezes and a cloudless sky. The tourist industry is alive and well here, as the dozens of shops lining the main street from the train station to the lake attest.

I pass ticking cuckoo clocks and racks spilling over with sunhats and tacky t-shirts and follow, instead, the smell of fresh fruits laid out underneath a striped awning. I cave for a basket of ripe strawberries, and plop myself down on a shady bench overlooking the lake and vendors offering paddleboat and canoe rentals. As I finish devouring yet another berry, I look up to find a dark-haired hunk staring in my direction. His eyes hidden behind darkly shaded sunglasses, I can’t be certain it’s me he’s looking at. But I smile back coyly as I bite into yet another berry, and watch as he leads two customers to the dock, where they clamber into a chunky paddleboat and being ploughing through the placid waters.

His long legs and muscular upper body are more tempting then the strawberries I’m cradling in a plastic basket, and finding my appetite for the tasty fruit suddenly diminished, head off in the direction of a new craving. I work my way down to the shore and stand in line at the ticket counter to buy myself an hour of boat time in one of the empty canoes shored in the ochre sand. (To be honest, I was contemplating renting a canoe before even arriving at the lake, but seeing how expertly this suave, mysterious man handled his watercraft sealed the deal. Besides, I wasn’t going to leave without at least getting his name.)


The man at the desk motions me toward a two-person canoe, and I wait there, more than patiently, until this dark-haired stranger emerges from the dock and we are face to face. We exchange smiles and he asks where the man is. Where is the man…. What man… Oh! No man! He’s hitting on me, and I densely pick up on it, almost too late. I tip my half-eaten basket of strawberries in his direction and I sneak a peek at his chiselled arms as he reaches for one.

His name is Feme, he’s a Serbian born and raised, and has spent the past ten years living near Titisee where he works as a boat captain. I can feel my mouth stretching into a giddy school-girl grin as he talks. His English is basic, but the accent is killer. And that smile… I’m so curious what those eyes look like underneath his shades that I nearly reach for them myself. But minding my manners, I ask him instead what he’s doing for lunch. He’s working straight through until 7 PM, he tells me. I shrug disappointedly, feeling his eyes search me for interest. And reaching an impasse, as he’s about to be called away to yet another customer, he pushes me out into the lake, water ruffling along the sides of my canoe as I take the oars and paddle out to infinity.

An hour later, I return my canoe to the dock, and manage to take my sweet time packing up my few belongings while Feme makes his way over. We small-talk for a minute or two, and finally, I tell him I’ll stop by before I leave for the day, to say goodbye. And with that, I’m off, walking along the lakeside trail that leads up into the Black Forest bordering south. The trail itself is scenic and cool, mostly shaded from the tall, imposing trees. I stop midway back on a sunny bench next to a lakeside café and stretch out, drenching my skin in the sunlight and feeling my body grow limp as the sun’s warmth works its magic on my muscles. Before long, I sink into a shallow sleep and wake, nearly an hour later, a bit groggy as I wipe sweat from my brow. I check my watch. It’s only 4 PM. I decide to head back, say goodbye to dream-boy, and take the next train in to Freiburg. But when I get to the dock, that smile just melts me. And I tell him I’ll be back. 7 PM. Look for me.

Later that evening, after indulging myself with the region’s famous dessert, Schwartzwald-torte (Black Forest Cake, layers of chocolate sponge sandwiched between thick cream, a thick cherry filling, and – yes, I can taste it – a strong cherry-flavored liquer), I head back to the dock. I purposely show a few minutes late, not wanting to appear too over-anxious.
Feme’s colleague sees me coming and calls to him from a storage shed where Feme is hidden from my sight. He emerges, a look of surprise on his face. He didn’t think I’d return. We walk part-way around the lake together, trying to scrape together an intelligible conversation with the bits and pieces of English that he can speak. Since I don’t know a lick of German, I’m at his mercy.

Using his special-privelege captain’s key, he unlocks one of the canoes from the line where they’re tied up for the night, and pushes me out into the water. For the second time today. And then he jumps in the boat with me. He rows and rows, and I watch the mountains recede as his arms pump the paddles in a rhythmic motion to the middle of the still water. There is no one around, no one to share the water space. It’s all ours. We own the lake and hell, the mountains around it to. We stay there in the silence as the sun begins to arc across the sky, and share a few romantic moments before paddling back to the shore, and walking on to the train station, where we say our goodbyes. This was most certainly the most romantic night of my travels thus far, with most probably the best looking guy I’ve crossed paths with. And it will be a long time before I forget Feme, the cherry on my Black Forest cake.

~Melanie