from Oslo, Norway: heat wave

People who hate the hot summers of the south, think of the Scandinavian peninsula as a breath of fresh, cool air. The highest temps hover in the sixties and the nights are crisp. Too crisp, sometimes. Pack a sweater. A jacket, gloves maybe. It’s a nippy land.

This week in June, you would have been fine with a sundress and sandals.

Yesterday’s six hour train ride to Oslo was brutal. Without air conditioning and with only two tiny slits at either end permitting fresh air, the car quickly heated up to a nice, steady broil.

And, even though the entire week we have been experiencing sunny days and high temps (in the eighties), people refuse to process this. It is so incongruous, so completely at odds with our perception of how it ought to be that we continue to pack that sweater, just in case. I look at the passengers, with tucked in shirts, long pants and thick socks and I think – take it off, all of it, you’re making me sweat just looking at you!

The conductor suggests that we all exit at the next station. It’s a three minute pause. Get some fresh air – he tells us. We do. The platform is hot. We stumble back inside and close the window curtains. Forget the stunning view. Survival trumps view.

But ask the Norwegians and they grin at the wonderfulness of it all (expect those working in the heat traps). Yes, isn’t it nice?

These people are sun deprived. Welcome, sun. Mmmm, more is good. Keep laying it on.

Sunday in Oslo.

We walk down to the pier, through the castle park, up the main street, tracing the steps now not of Grieg, but of Ibsen and Munch (Ibsen, the pampered, adored writer, Munch the looker, the haunted painter).

Endless walking. Past the the port, the palace, to the food fair (refreshed by Norwegian cloudberry ice cream), up the old Oslo blocks, collapsing finally in a warm hotel room because, you know, this country doesn’t need air conditioning.

I hate too much air conditioning and so I am not the complainer now. And who would want to complain anyway. The day of sun (or is it that it’s Sunday?) brings out every last Oslovian. Endless people watching opportunities.

A sample of the sights and tastes – of a Sunday in Oslo:



Oslofjord: castles and ships




revealing, listening - with a sweater, just in case




cool statues, cool fountains, cool people




fast food




a cigarette break




food fest




a path with a view




café life




old Oslo




dinner




in the evening sun: enjoying one daughter, missing the other

from Lofthus, Norway: boatsmen, brooks and buffets

I admire the Vikings. I do. When the winds were low, they took out those big wooden oars and rowed like there’s no tomorrow. And they got places!


It is morning in Lofthus, Norway. Tractors are mowing the grasses that grow between cherry and apple trees. I am trying to work (that’s the June plan: work in the a.m., be out and about in the p.m.).

Like a kid waiting for the bell to ring, I count the minutes til noon. Finally. Time to sail the fjords. With long wooden oars resting in quaint brackets of a big row boat.




Except, that damn thing is moving so very very slowly! I stare at a spot behind me and occasionally look around to see how far I have traveled and it’s always such a disappointment. I mean, I know I could not get to the ocean and back again in one afternoon – this is the world’s third longest fjord after all, but still, can’t I at least see what’s around the bend?

No I cannot. After an hour of heave-hoeing, I turn around and head back.

My arms ache from going nowhere. My one pleasure is watching the ripples from my oars create fantastic distortions to the mountains reflected in the water. Like I said, I admire the Vikings.






The afternoon is young and I am feeling peppy. A short hike would be terrific. This time I know to ask for a gentle stroll. Their gentle is my idea of big time exercise. I have read that Grieg liked to do the river walk over to the falls. (Perhaps with his wife, Nina?) He can’t have sweated excessively before sitting down to compose.

That’s an easy one – the desk clerk informs me.
Perfect.

The sun is hot, but I am in comfy espadrilles made by the women of Basque (they know their walking shoes in the Basque) and an airy tank top, and I fill my big bottle with icy water. I am so ready.

I pass the church – a 13th century building, well tended, quite pretty inside in a Scandinavian sort of way…









I pass so many buildings with slate roofs sprouting grasses, trees even.





And then, I turn up the hill to follow the river – more like a raging stream, really, rushing the waters from two magnificent falls.





The walk is lovely. Thumbs up for Grieg’s choice of inspirational walks. Sure, there is an incline, but every few kilometers, there is a wooden bench where you can sit and contemplate raging brooks and piano notes and whatever else inspires you.

I have to say that, as is so often the case, life throws a nice little punch at those who think they can prepare themselves for a comfortable existence. That hiking outfit that was to serve me well for this walk? A complete mismatch for the kilometers of path along the rushing waters. Do you know how cold that water is? And how cold the air is at the side of its banks?

True, I am grateful for my bottle of water. Though I’m remembering the Norwegian couple whom I met at the top of the Nose yesterday. I had said how thirsty I had been climbing up. They laughed.

You have streams here. Why didn’t you drink from them? We never carry water bottles!
But the guide book says not to drink from the springs!

They looked at me with sympathetic eyes. I’m sure they were thinking – oh, you Americans! Don’t you know how to live?

My path reaches the base of the lesser falls and a little footbridge allows for a moment of such great beauty that you might as well sit down and... write music.




The nippy air keeps me moving though. After taking scores of photos, all looking pretty much like the other, I cross over and follow the trail back down again, past wet rocks with clumps of moss and flowers…





…past ferns and birches and all the beautiful shades of green that spring brings forth.

In the village, I walk through the orchards one last time and for a moment I am almost ready to call them as beautiful as grape vines. Look at this row of dancing girls, with their wobbly knees and sweeping arms of green:





It’s warm again. I pass village people, going about their days.





Scenes of tranquility. The fjord becomes nothing more than wallpaper to the routines of daily life. Yes, yes, we have these deep crevices filled with water but there are fruit trees that have been producing fruit for hundreds of years in this area and we must tend to them and water our lupines and pick up our children from school and get on with bread making and the like.











It’s evening. The rare motorboat cuts an arch of light and the ripples pick up the June rays on the quiet fjord waters.





Me, I’m ready for that great Scandinavian eating experience – the buffet.

I’ve been avoiding eating such a dinner. I’m not cut out for buffets. I’m too much of a porker when it comes to food and if you place me in front of tables heaped with all sorts of regional delicacies, I am likely to overdo.

But, I am in Scandinavia after all. And the a la carte meals are too expensive for what follows. So here I am, at what has been described as a wonderfully memorable buffet.

I am given a choice table by the window. The family who owns this hotel has a vast number of relatives in Wisconsin and they have told me all about their trip several years back to visit their kinfolk in the New World. (Their visit was during the month of November, which I thought was an odd time to travel to Wisconsin, until I remembered that their own November has no light.) I think my prime table is the result of their fondness for those Wisconsin relatives.

And so the eating begins.

If I thought the Norwegians were sort of tame in the kitchen, I have to hand it to them now: they are superb at the buffet.

The seafood is, for me, the draw: baby shrimp with three colors of roe. Langoustines, heaping platefuls of them. Salmon: poached, baked, grilled, smoked – all types, artfully presented. Mussels, trout -- it’s all there.

You do not believe that I eat as much as I say I do? Here’s plate number one:





And then I have the nerve to go back and design a salad course, which has reruns of my favorite seafoods piled on top.





I’m not hungry for the meats, but they come strongly recommended and I did tell myself I would have a bit of reindeer once, just because everyone here eats reindeer and to that one must add veggies and potatoes, right?





I did cut back on the cheeses. These people are not cheese freaks like the French. In fact, I was so sure that most of the cheeses on the board were actually from south of the Baltic Sea that I had someone come out from the kitchen to pick out the Norwegian among them and they couldn’t do it! There is not enough cheese pride in Norway.





Dessert – what can I say. It was a tough choice…





…so I had a little of this and a little of that.

And the rest is a blur.


Saturday. I head back to Oslo this afternoon. I’m reconnecting there with my daughter for a three night stay in the city. One hopes I’ll be on best behavior, and not go chasing mountains and dipping long oars into still waters. One must set an example after all. The young are so impressionable.

One last look at the fjords then. I'm dropped off up the fjord, at the pier, where the ferry is about to cross me over.





On it, I watch a group of impressionable very young Norwegians, packing in a whole little meal in the seven minute crossing. It’ll make them grow tall and strong. To work the oars maybe.

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.