from Lofthus, Norway: honor and the nose

Yes, it’s pretty here, in countryside, but I really want to come face to face with a fjord. This is not easy if you’re determined to use public transportation and refuse to join a tour group. So near and yet so far.

Truthfully, my first night in the countryside was less than perfect. My hotel was over a small train station and the noise from all sides was enough to knock sleep out of even the hardy. Which, btw, is not, so far as sleep is concerned, me.

Morning breakfast was a buffet thing – wasted on me. Fruits, breads, cereals – that would be fine. Fish, salads, cheeses, sausages – forget it. The northern Europeans can kill my morning appetite in a minute. I feel I am in Poland.

I nibble on some kringle and run for the bus station.

I’m nervous using buses abroad. I mess up schedules all the time. How do I know what they mean by “holiday?” Fine, I see that Saturday is different, but who would know that Wednesday is different as well, in certain places? I struggle with the charts, and here, in Norway, with the language. Still, I think I can connect. I think I can.

Damn it, I want to get to Lofthus! (I wanted to get there last night, but the hotel there had no rooms for me then.)

Lofthus is actually a collection of tiny hamlets bordering the large Hardengenfjord. A favorite hangout for Grieg. In fact, he composed his most famous pieces in my hotel of choice! Maybe even in my room! Maybe it will inspire me to create great things as well! Maybe not.

The bus ride is terrifying. Twists and turns on a narrow strip of asphalt, requiring backing up if another car is coming. I try to appreciate the scenery but I’m counting the minutes, wondering how many busloads are lost to the mountains and ravines of Norway.

I do take one photo before deciding that taking photos will dislodge the kringle and coffee. But the shot at least gives you a feel of how pretty a terrifying ride can be.





And suddenly, we are at the dark waters of the fjord. So this is what the fuss is all about! A ferry takes us over. In a flash, my calm is restored.





We finish the final miles along the shore of the fjord and finally it’s my turn to get off, at the Hotel Ullensvang in Lofthus.

Yes, I guessed that my room wouldn't be ready. I’m sorry for the super early arrival, I was anxious to get here. Can you recommend a walk while I wait?
Long or short?
(Thinking – the day is beautiful and I want something more than a geriatric stroll to the church and back) Long!
I have a map for you. Take this trail up to “the Nose.” Good views up there.
Great!

I turn to leave.

It’s about a two and a half hour climb, straight up. Beautiful views.

Do I turn around and ask for maybe something less hardy? No I do not. My honor’s at stake. I don’t want to be seen as a wimp.

Never mind that I am hardly ready for a mountain climb. That I have the wrong clothes, wrong shoes, and heavy camera gear with me. Never mind that I am tired from not sleeping, hungry from not eating and generally a mess from the bus ride. I walk off with a wave as if I am as eager as anything to attack the mountain.

Here, you can see the Nose from this shot. It’s the rock up at the top, near the strips of snow, the one that looks like, well, a nose.





I do have the sense to stop at the store for more water (I had half a bottle left from Oslo and it is sunny and hot outside).

I do not have the sense to wait until the store opens. Impatient to attack the beast, I set off.

At first, the climb is nothing short of awesome. This is Norway’s fruit plate. Orchards line the slope in much the same way as vineyards line France’s southern hills. And below, there is the fjord.





But very quickly I am hotter than hot and that half bottle of water becomes like liquid gold. One sip every half hour, I tell myself.

Oh to hell, the clothes have to come off. There’s no one here.

Up up, into the forest. Slightly cooler here. Back goes the shirt. Still, the sun filters in even among the firs.





I see the patches snow above, like a mirage – glimmering in icy splendidness. I imagine stretching on one, cooling off as the melting water drips straight into my mouth. The image is nice. Up, up I climb, forest needles and cones constantly filling my mary-janes.

I see wild blueberries ripening. I’m tempted to eat the whole batch of them.





I am hungry, I am thirsty. I think of the cistercian monks who not only did this climb routinely but also went to the trouble of hauling rocks that form steps near the top (some 500 years ago). Why did they do it? Who would benefit? Was it worth it? What did they eat? Do monks eat well? Were there good cooks among them?

Flowers appear in clumps. Forget-me-nots, anemone. Birches replace the firs. I am in birch paradise. I can’t say that my step is lighter with each breath, but I am very very pleased to be here, doing this climb on this bright June day.





And finally, I reach the Nose.





And the view that is worth every last sweaty step.





I meet a Norwegian couple just a wee bit younger than me. I must look frightful because he offers to carry my camera equipment back down. I tell them I don’t usually hike in such disarray. They nod sympathetically, kindly. They tell me about different fjords – ones with steeper cliffs, rock formation, green waters. Me, I’m happy just to have seen this one in this hamlet where Grieg composed.



Five hours later, the hike is behind me and I am again in the village. The room is ready, I check in.

To say that I have a room with a view is an understatement. In the wee hours of the morning (though how do you define morning here?) I look out onto this:





Plans for today? After a period of writing, I was thinking of doing this:





But that’s tomorrow’s story.

from Norway: train ride

I have a six hour ride on the train that links Oslo with the western shores of Norway. I sit in a car with several dozen others. Most everyone is very tall, light-haired, and properly (if extremely conventionally) attired. A German tour group and an assortment of Norwegian couples. And small me, with no socks, shoes tossed under the seat, computer out.

Looking for a three-day retreat (to write), I had opted to sequester myself somewhere along the stunning coasts of the fjords. It was not easy to find a room with a view. June is a favorite vacation month here. Who wouldn’t want to take in the light, the spring flowers, the vivid, green countryside? Inns and hotels are fully booked.


The Norwegians have done well for themselves. It helps to have all that offshore oil and acres of acres of trees. (The use of wood is so ubiquitous that it catches you by surprise: chair handles on the train, elevator doors, walls, counters, all of it: wood.)

But I'm wondering -- the meticulous conformity, where does that come from? The properly tucked shirt, the guide book, read diligently, with a ruler to help with the penciled underlining. Well tended, confident, tall. Enough to easily swing a heavy suitcase onto the rack above the seat.

In the restaurant car, sausages turn on rotating rods. I see kjottkaker (Norwegian meatballs, $18)) and lefse (a Norwegian pancake-like thing). You could get a can of Carlsbeg ($11) or a glass of wine ($15). I settle for a cup of coffee and a candybar. We have Starbucks back home so I am at least used to inflated prices on coffee.

We pass over a mountain ridge where there is still snow and the trees look like they may never sprout leaves. A few cottages, seemingly random and out of place. Summer retreats? A short season of endless light followed by endless darkness. (I was in Iceland one week-end in late November and I remember this well. Days without daylight. How do you clear your cobwebs and wake up happy without sunlight to push you along?)





The conductor announces that the next stop is at the highest elevation. We all get out for a minute to take in the cool air and to reach for our digitals. A glacier spills out onto a field of snow and ice. We are mesmerized. Twice, the train enigneer pushes on the claxon. People, I have a schedule to keep! get back on board. We linger nonetheless.





Finally the red train from Olso picks up speed and zips downhill. The ice is melting with each minute. It's like global warming at fast forward.





Station stops are used by a few testy souls who insist on getting out, just to get a better view (and take photos; me, for example).





Finally, down in the valley, it is time for me to get off. I overnight by a lake. Lilacs bloom, a motorboat with a glider zips by.





The unusual warmth brings out young people, stripped of layers of winter wool, exposing flesh that is not used to a strong June sun. Lovers. Always, in the most scenic spots, you will find lovers, or dreamers. Or both.

from Oslo: white nights

I’m sitting on a flight next to a sea captain. Tugboats – he has sailed tugboats around the world for more than thirty years.

I hardly spent any time at home (in Rotterdam). I am used to it.

I tell him that a friend has wanted to take me sailing but I balk each time. I get seasick on choppy waters.

You are healthy then. The healthy response is to feel the disturbance in your balance and to react negatively to it.

I smell nicotine on him all the way to Amsterdam. He talks politics and has a running commentary on the ways and habits of Americans. He becomes more and more forthright as the free wine flows into his plastic cup.

You can make a lot of money in America. In Holland, you can become rich only if you are born into money. The rest of us don’t have to try, because we’ll never get there! It’s very liberating – we have a good life instead.

We change planes in Holland, arrive in Oslo late and eat perhaps the most expensive quick meal ever. Yes, Norway is even more pricey than England. How about that!

But what stands out, hugely, is the light. It is near 11 in the evening. We sit outside with our plates of salmon bits and burger patties and sip wine from a jug and watch the light. The never fading June light.






In the morning, work causes us to go our separate ways for three days. I'm on my own now, heading northwest into fjord country.

from Istanbul: water

We leave our magnificent little rooftop dining place, the Doga Balik (see previous post) – the one with painted blue chairs, and fresh fish on ice (point to your preference and it will be grilled for you) and groups of Turkish diners who stay far longer than we do. Tired, we zip in a cab back to our perfect, small hotel with the lovely modern bathroom.

It is amazing how many functions a hotel ceases to perform well if, one evening, the city fails to deliver to it water.

When will it be here?
Maybe in fifteen minutes…

We laugh. No big deal.

In the middle of the night we wake. They call it jet lag, I call it a first night of travel thing: you want sleep and you want wakefulness. Badly. At various points in the night, one or the other takes control and you just have to run with it.

Even though there is no water.

Thirsty, we raid the mini bar. Evian. Yum.

When?
We’ll let you know soon.
Silence.

At three in the morning, we ask again.

When?
Anxious to please they give an answer.
By five maybe.

By five, when there is no water, we give in to sleep.

Seven-thirty.

When?
An admission: We do not know. The manager will be here soon.
When?
At eight.

The water comes before the manager.
Wake-up, there’s water!
Sputter, sputter. False hope.

When?
Sorry, we are waiting for the government. It is their problem. They have to send us water.

We go for a walk. It may be a city-wide (neighborhood?) problem, but the city seems to managing well without it. Children are walking to school, men are selling pretzels, shopkeepers are washing the sidewalk by the store, cafés are open.

Interesting.









We find a terrific little spot and have a breakfast of noodle-like pastry with cheese.






We’ll be returning next week. For now, a flight to catch. To Oslo, via Amsterdam. Hoping for governments to feel kindly toward the tourist who, well, likes water.

from Istanbul

Yes, one foot in Europe, the other in Asia. Arrived this afternoon, staying overnight and then returning to northern Europe.

Tired from hours in flight.

But I don’t mean to sound mysterious. Or, maybe I do, but not to the point where my travels appear insane. Truth is, we (my daughter and I) needed to come here first in order to return to Turkey later in the month. It’s an airfare thing. Don’t ask. Five pages would not be enough.

One foot here, the other in a different world. I have very very vague memories of Istanbul from my travels here as a college kid. I didn’t notice the new construction then. Was I distracted?

We’re spending the night at a hotel that is small and very very modern. Step outside and we are by a mosque that has some years on it. It’s like that here.

We eat dinner on a terrace up above Taksim Square. The view is of Istanbul. In the light of a stunning dusk.





Grilled fish with lemon juice and olive oil. Dried fruits, an espresson and the relief of going back to the hotel room, to sleep off the travel before we take on any more.

woooosh!!!

I'm off and away. For a variety of reasons, it is an unusually long trip -- even by my standards. There are work considerations, traveling with daughter considerations and needing to find time to write considerations.

But nothing, nothing can explain days like, for example, this coming Tuesday, where I spend some time in Istanbul, some time in Amsterdam and some time in Oslo. How can this be???

When craziness befalls you and you are a blogger, the instant thought is: no problem! I'll blog about it!

In the meantime, I am waiting for my flight to cross the ocean. To Paris, of course. In transit. Because if it's Tuesday, it must be...Istanbul, Amsterdam and Oslo.

day before

Some people really make a fuss about leaving. They pack forever and take too much - clothing, work papers, reading material -- you name it.

Some people make long lists of essential things that must be done prior to take off ("pay bills," "stop mail," "call mother," that kind of thing) and then proceed not to do them until the last minute, leaving at least a dozen less essential items untouched -- a nice reminder when they come back of their slacking ways.

I have all these tendencies. Mainly I always have far less time than I think I have. But at some point -- for me, typically seconds before a bus or a flight closes the doors on you -- it all stops and you're off. These days, a functional ATM card is far more important than remembering to pack the right bikini for the beach (I'm speaking figuratively here). So you call your credit card company, tell them you'll be spending weirdly, perhaps wildly, so please please do not put a stop to the exotic bills coming from bars on the coast of the Agean! -- and you're off.

I am at that point now. Almost almost out the door. Sunday is a day of travel, so is Monday. Actually so is Tuesday and so is Wednesday. But I have my medium sized laptop and confidence in the Internet and so I'll be back, here on Ocean. Soon, very soon.

storms, AT&T and dating

Those are topics I may have taken on had I the time on this day. I expect that in the weeks ahead, I'll drift back to all three. In the meantime, I'm staying steady and calm. You get to a point in life where there isn't a lot that can knock you down. Storms? AT&T? Dating? Peanuts all.

More to come.

the end of the road

Here, we’re nearing our destination. Take a photo, will you?
You’re switching lanes! There are bumps in the road! There are splattered bugs all over the windshield!
Shoot! Waste photos! Or else I’ll do it!
You’re driving, hand me the camera and tell me what you want!
You know: traffic, skyline, construction, all that I think of when coming up on Chicago.






So this is it, the drop off point – the end of the 1000 miles. Thursday, I drive the remaining paltry 150 alone to Madison.

…where I will not sleep for three days straight so that I can finish all that I need to finish before taking off for a long stretch across the ocean.

One-sentence posts, coming up. Until Monday.

Highway notes

There is something brutal about this hugely democratic movement of people across America’s highways. It’s morning, I am at a Holiday Inn in Batavia, New York. Not one of my readers will have heard of Batavia. Or maybe they will have been here, for it is well represented by a clump of motels at the foot of an entrance ramp onto Highway 90.

The Holiday Inn has a lobby that smells of swimming pools. They all do. When I was young, motels had outdoor pools and you drove up to the door of your room in most every roadside inn (for the handful of years that I lived in the States then, my family was big on road trips). I’m thinking that the pools should have stayed outside because chlorine is only slightly better in smell than stale tobacco. (Thank God for nonsmoking rooms.)

We are looking to have a Bob Evans breakfast. Me, I have been won over by Starbucks counters with great coffee and boring but serviceable baked goods, but there isn’t one here in Batavia and so we are likely to order the traditional Bob Evans plateful of foods that do well with maple syrup (pancakes, French toast, etc). With weak coffee on the side. In thick mugs.

Then we will enter the stream of traffic. Pick up a ticket for the thruway, point the nose of the monster car west and push the pedal down. And I will stay in that position for hours, watching the sun move from behind me to in front of me.

My eyes will focus on truckers whose vans ask me to call random places to report on their highway behavior and on highway patrol cars that chase random sinners in the speed lane. I will count down miles to the next service area and then the next one. We will not stop at hardly any, by they are markers of progress. Nothing else gives me the feeling of movement. I am stuck on a highway that looks the same in Batavia as it does will in Toledo and Elkhorn.

Like millions others, we are off, ready to be sucked into the westbound lanes. To be spit out tonight, in Chicago.

from New Haven: overheard, one last time

Come on, put on a cap so we can take a photo of you – it’s your school, your celebration as well! It’s your JD &MA!
No, I’m here for my little sister’s college graduation.

One has logged in four, the other - eight years of a New Haven life

All the details, the opening hours, the short cuts, the foods, the habits of this city are suddenly immaterial to us! It all no longer matters! So sad.

We disperse. One stuck on a broken Amtrak train, somewhere between Baltimore and DC. One waiting for a flight back to Chicago. And two for the road. Car packed with books, a stack of tapes to listen to, hitting America’s great (and oh so boring) highways back to the Midwest.

from New Haven: overheard

(toddler’s voice) Mama? Mama?
Mamma is getting her degree. You’ll see her in a while.

(elsewhere:)

My son took seven years. Toward the end of his senior year he had a meltdown and wanted time off (to ski). All the relatives had to get refunds for their airfares for his graduation. Today they’re all here. He finished! Seven years later, he finished!

(elsewhere:)

Uncle! Uncle! Climb over here, can you? You can see him walk by here!

So, how do you photograph it all? (See here? I'm not the only one with trepidations.)

...Me, I'm just just biding time, waiting for the right person (out of oh so many) to walk by with a content grin...





Overwhelming? yes, though if I wait long enough, there will always be the food to help me regain my composure.

from New Haven: hats off

It’s a week-end thing, this graduation stuff. And that’s good. Some of us travel far to see the square hats on our kids’ heads. May as well roll out the carpet for the grads all week-end long.

In the morning, when the streets are still not peppered with black robes, a sole grad takes the time to walk her puppy. Did the puppy come to her with a card saying – good luck! This is your future! He is yours now!?

The Baccalaureate. They gather in their robes and they listen to speeches about their time here in college. A (known to me) young woman gives one last look up toward the gallery, where her family is sitting, beaming…

But solemnity be damned. Today is the fun day. Where black hats are tossed aside for more creative options.

Wait, is someone importing emblems of my home state?

I listen to it all, I sing the songs that over the years you pick up at these events:

Bright college years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life…

Mine weren’t that. But things are different now – with pleasure rife – for my kids.

Spoken like a true immigrant, no?

from New Haven: art

A reader commented – doctors practice medicine; artists do not practice art.

Makes sense. But I do support the practice of supporting art. And I would very much like to be supported for finding art.

All that as a backdrop to my walk through the campus this morning. So much of what is here shouts ART!

If you take pictures of art, are you contributing to its creation? Or just supporting it?

The last photo is from the newly renovated Yale University Art Gallery (a modernist building that is as old as I am). The permanent collection here is mind boggling.

A warm warm day, much of it spent walking through art, thinking about art, wishing there was more time for participating actively in its creation.

from New Haven: done

I would say an eight-year relationship is pretty hefty, wouldn’t you? It gives you time to make friends and get bored a little. You develop a history.

My relationship with New Haven has been eight years and now it’s time to call it quits. I’m bowing out.

I hated you when I first saw you. Drab, I thought. But you wooed me. That dinner on the cold rainy March day! I still remember it.

I’m into ratings. I rate your food as awesome. From the pizza to the ethnic beauties – I’ve eaten Ethiopian, South American, North American, Indian, Malaysian, Spanish -- ohhh, I’m having regrets! This is not good!

The reality is that I came here only because my daughters made this their home. Good old daughters. Quirky daughters. New Haven??? It wasn’t meant to last. Now, one has chosen DC, the other is heading west to PA in CA – stay put already, so I can get bored again!

Okay, I haven’t always been bored in New Haven. I have cried here at the various events that I have attended. I have cried when I have left daughters behind and headed home.

And, I have acted stupidly here. Never more stupidly than on the night of September 1st, 2005. The Hot Tomato's bar. Those in the know will nod their heads sagely. Yep, she was an ass then. You are right. I cannot sing je ne regrette rien since that day.

But mostly, it has been a place where my family assembles every now and then. Solid love. And, memories of physical toil (the moving in, the moving out). And mental anguish (did anyone read the New Yorker bit this week about college being one big ride on the anxiety train?).

So, it’s my final visit here.

New Haven. Such a place. Wonderful to be back, this one last time. [I’m staying away from Hot Tomato's.]

a birth, a graduation and errands

Tomorrow, I’m off to watch a college graduation. Of the youngest one. Yep, I’m that old.

I can’t pay attention to age implications. I am just so… dazed. A college graduation of your youngest is one of those moments you cannot even imagine as you’re trying to get her out of the womb.

Kid, you made it out. You’re good now.

A sudden reconfiguration of schedules has created absolute chaos here, on Ocean. Our family will be there, cheering her, yes, that was set four years ago. We assumed she would graduate. [And guess, what, we will be celebrating law and grad degrees for her sister, same time, same place. Oh, the champagne that all this warrants!] But after the celebrations? We have decided on a road trip of sorts, as she and I will rumble along from the east to the Midwest and then, later in the summer, from the Midwest to the Pacific coast.

In the months between, there’s much ocean and continent crossing and, let’s not forget, there’s teaching, grading and all the other incidentals of work.

And a move.

Am I crazy?


And yet, if you hung with me today, you’d think this was just one of those ordinary, laid-back, late spring days.

I called my traveling companion of the velo trip.

Ed, I have a million errands to run and I am leaving tomorrow and, well, I could use some company.
Motorbike okay?
Yes, of course, just hurry up because I have a million errands to run.
I’ll be there in a few.
(later)
Where to?
The AAA on the far far west side. I need maps for my road trip!
(halfway there)
Don’t you have an AAA across the street from where you live?
I do??? I never noticed! Why didn’t you let me know earlier??
I figured you knew what you were doing.

I’m not sure Ed ever believes I know what I am doing, but it’s a good line.

(later)

We’re at the mall. I am canvassing endless stores for, well, for stuff. Stuff does not interest Ed. He falls asleep sprawled out on a bench at Banana Republic. Three young things stand nearby, chatting as if he wasn’t there. And they are right. Ed is snoring.

We are outside now.

It is about to rain!
We will get wet.
Is it okay to be wet on a motorbike?
Only a little worse than being wet on a regular bike.

We get wet. He’s wrong. Being wet on a bike sucks more than this. The rain is warm, the sky changes patterns, all is okay.



I'm flying east tomorrow.

All is okay. All is okay.

empty

One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss. Isn’t it always like that.

I biked up to the Law School and was immediately reminded how it feels on Bascom Mall during the summer.

Where is everyone?

A small group takes to the green space and plays croquet. Croquet?? One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss…





The day was so beautiful and it was so lost on me. Preoccupied, busy, call it what you want. I was not outside except to bike to and from my office.

Until, finally, just before sunset, I went outside just to look and smell. There’s only a parking lot there, before my loft. But at the side, there are small lilacs.

The butterfly and I chased each other for while. Until finally he relented and let me take a photo.





After, he laughed and flew away and I went back to an empty-feeling loft.

feeling free

I am waiting for someone at an outdoor café on State Street. A young man, sitting on a bench nearby, looks at Isthmus want ads, then makes a cell call.

Hi, I’m selling my laptop. I’m done with school and so I don’t need it any more. I’d rather have the cash.
(pause while other party speaks)
It’s a Dell Latitude. It’s got the usual stuff – Internet, word processing…




After the call, he strums some more on the guitar. He sings, too, but not very well.



Earlier in the day I asked Ed, my traveling companion of a few weeks back, if he would help me clean up the tiny Sony laptop I was returning.

Can we take off the email program?
Sure. Let’s empty out the messages there first.

Click, click.

Ed, my Inbox on my (clunky) home computer is alerting me I have exceeded capacity!
Oh, I must be trashing things from the server, not from the Sony.

7842 messages have been inadvertently moved to the trash bin.

Hmm, let’s delete those that are both in “Trash” and in your “Sent” box – they’re overloading your capacity.

Click, click.

Ed, my mailboxes on the server are now almost entirely empty! What happened to the 7842 messages that a while ago where in the "Sent" box?
Oh my gosh (actually, shockingly, stronger words were used here)! I think we deleted all of them, from both places!
You mean all the email I have ever written is all gone?

Dial tech support at UW.

Sorry, you’re right, it’s all gone. Forever.

All gone?

Tech support at the Law School laughs along with me when I tell them what happened.

It’s kind of liberating, isn’t it? – they say.

Sure. I’m feeling free.

Like a retired person with suddenly too much time on their hands, I am a person with suddenly too much available space on her server.

Now if I wanted to feel really free, I’d call the ads and sell off the rest of my technology, like the young man on the bench on State Street.

I can’t do that. I was raised in Commie Poland. I never thought personal freedom was as important as connectedness.

geeslings

Please don not correct me. I know that baby geese are not called geeslings. [They're goslings, aren't they?] But geeslings sounds so perfect.

The children of geese. They appear to hover near their mother goose...





...but really, don’t you think that it is only a rouse? When you look deeply into their souls, can you see the independence? From both parents? Sure you can.




My day, in great measure, was made up of geesling thoughts.

week-end notes

Today is the kind of day you’re glad not to be hiking. Or biking. Cold rain, gray skies.

But yesterday, now that was a day!

Perfect for the market. And for buying lillies of the valley.




… and for reaching for a chestnut bloom





…for tossing a ball around at a graduation celebration





…for planting things





… for pausing on the ride in to admire a view of the city






Really, a perfect spring day. A shame spring weather is so damn fickle.