Norge!

Wednesday, November 28th Tate Modern

I came to London with an open mind. I did not blindly buy into the image of the rude Parisian or the sleazy Italian male, but soon found out that those were two stereotypes that were very accurate. Today was another test of this open-mindedness - particularly the idea and generalization that modern art is rubbish. Today was the last "field trip" for my Museums and Galleries class, and our museum this week was the Tate Modern. Situated in a converted power plant across the Thames from St. Paul's, its rather ugly modern architecture serves as a preview of those exhibits and installations contained within its walls.

Like I said before, I was going into this with an open mind, figuring that not all "modern" artwork was in the same vein as Duchamp's urinal or simply being as provocative as possible. But after two and a half hours of being dragged through exhibits by our professor, obviously an overzealous fan of modern art, I emerged from the museum rather cranky and frustrated. For example, we stood in front of a plain and unpainted canvas for fifteen minutes, the only catch being that across the middle of the canvas the artist had cut a slash. Our professor droned on about how this represented the shift of art's focus from the exterior to the interior, or something along those ridiculous lines. We sat in the "Rothko Room" for twenty minutes, which was a room with panels that had large rectangles painted on them - that was all there was, and somehow my more pretentious classmates were able to discuss their interpretations for another ten minutes. It was frustrating because in this class we have gone to wonderful museums with fantastic artwork (e.g. The National Gallery and its da Vincis, van Eycks, and Raphaels) but the professor has never devoted more than five minutes to those works of art that are actually works of art. But I did figure something out today, I realized that I despise modern art. Now let me try to explain, and bear with me while I rant, it will only take a minute or so.

When I look at art and its progression throughout history, it has been a story of innovation and technique. From the introduction of contrapossto into Greek sculpture to the mastery of chiaroscuro by Botticelli and Caravaggio, artists have been seeking to hone their skills and produce artwork that has withstood the shifting tides of different movements and tastes. On the other hand modern art is simply an exercise in laziness. Jackson Pollock can literally throw some paint on a canvas and be elevated to celebrity status, Duchamp can sign a urinal and place it in a gallery, a painter with the right name can paint one stripe on a canvas and actually make a hefty sum of money for less than an hour's work. So much of modern art is based on being provocative and "different" without an ounce of artistic merit involved. Let's just say that I walked in with a receptive attitude, but left with an almost fanatical distaste for anything "modern" or "post-modern", or "post-post-modern" for that matter.

Thursday, November 29th London to Haugesund to Bergen

Twelve hours of traveling. I spent that much time sitting in either a bus, airplane, ferry, bus station, or airport. And somehow I was in the best of spirits throughout the whole of it. And by "somehow" I mean that I was the best of spirits because I was on my way to Norway. My excitement meant that I slept a total of two hours the night prior, it was as though I was six years old and going to Disneyland. After a twenty-minute Tube ride and an hour and a half of fighting carsickness in an easyBus, I arrived at Stansted Airport. Once more I had a proper beard when walking through security, and once more I was searched - no surprise there.

While waiting for my flight at the gate I realized that I was the only one lacking a Norwegian passport, and I'm pretty sure I was the only one whose first language was English. And while this may sound a bit intimidating, it couldn't have made me happier. On the airplane I sat next to a thirty something Norwegian woman who spoke impeccable English with a British accent. She told me that Norwegians love it when you speak English, because it gives them a chance to practice theirs - quite a contrast to the Parisians and Italians. We arrived at Haugesund Airport to pouring rain, but I am pretty sure that for the duration of the bus ride to Haugesund itself I had a little smile on my face. The houses, the ocean, the mountains, I was just so excited to be there.

At the bus station a beautiful Norwegian girl struck up a conversation with me, and I figure that was a very nice welcome to Norway. On a relatively superficial note, out of everywhere I've gone, I will say that the Norwegian young women were by far the best looking. When buying a sandwich (for my only meal of the day) at a Haugesund store, the clerk asked me a question in Norwegian, and this is how the conversation went from there.

- "Beklager, jeg snakker ikke norsk. Snakker du engelsk?" (With a horrible American accent)
- "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were Norwegian." (With a spot-on British accent)
- "Thanks for the compliment."

I then ate my mediocre, 12 dollar prepackaged sandwich and hopped on the bus for Bergen. Oh by the way, I thought London was expensive until I went to Norway. Although Coca-Cola was rather inexpensive, and appeared to be the national drink because every other person I saw had one in their hand. Good job Ole Radar. The bus ride to Bergen was wonderful, because while it was rather cramped, the scenery was beautiful. It was at this time that I formed my thesis: When God created Norway he created a land unforgiving, bleak, and desolate - but to make up for this he made the Norwegians, who were some of the warmest people I've met anywhere along my travels. The bus ride was about 4 hours to Bergen, which included an hour-long ferry ride that was unfortunately in the dark. Why the bus ride you ask? Well, because my flight only cost $20 to Haugesund, whereas a flight directly to Bergen would have cost somewhere around $100. And it was also quite nice to see a bit of the Norwegian countryside along the way, well at least what I did get to see before the sun went down at 3pm.

I arrived at the Bergen bus station around 7, got lost for an hour trying to find my hostel, and then found my hostel - which was three blocks from the bus station. I stayed in Marken Gjesthaus, which was the only hostel in Bergen city center and was quite nice really. I stayed in a 12-bed dorm room with one other person (it was the off-season after all) and it cost me about 80$ for three nights. After throwing my backpack into a locker I took off to explore the city (which is more enjoyable when you're not lost). Originally I made plans to go to Oslo the second weekend of October, but because of finances and midterms I had to back out. I will admit that I was a bit disappointed at having missed that opportunity, but it actually turned out to be a bit of a blessing incognito. From what I have heard and read, Oslo is more of an international city, and to be honest I have had the best experiences in Europe outside of international cities (London excluded), which usually lack authentic culture because of the number of cultures being represented. Bergen turned out to be the best travel decision I've made during my time abroad. It's a city roughly the size of Tacoma (pop. 200,000), but a city that still maintains a distinct and vibrant Norwegian culture. Just roaming the streets for a few hours before bed was a delight.

Friday, November 30th A day in Bergen and Mount Fløyen

I woke up late, because the sun did as well. That was one of the nice features about traveling to Norway in late Autumn, you could wake up at 9:30 and still see the sunrise. I traversed the main part of the city north to south and east to west, just trying to get a feel for the city itself and the people that called it home. Just hearing Norwegian made me happy. As I walked around this beautiful Norwegian city I couldn't help but reminded of my wonderful late Norwegian grandpa, and I will admit that at a few points I found myself teary-eyed and wishing that I could be experiencing his beloved country with him. This was my first visit to Norway, but the whole of the trip seemed like a rather nostalgic homecoming.

Around noon I took the Fløibanen to the top of Mount Fløyen. The views of Bergen were spectacular, but once there I felt rather adventuresome and explored the trails, waterfalls and lakes until sundown. It was one of the highlights of my nearly four months here, just being able to breathe the mountain air and wander the deserted trails (I only saw one other person in my three hours there). The views of the snow-capped peaks that surrounded Fløyen were fantastic. While crossing a bridge I slipped and fell about six or seven feet into the shallow creek below, and it was then that I realized that if I wouldn't have landed on my feet and perhaps broken a bone, absolutely nobody would know where to find me and that I should probably be a little more cautious. That meant that I had to return to the designated trails and walk back to the Fløibanen, because while I did love my time on Mount Fløyen, I didn't want to spend the cold night in one of its survival shelters. If I could properly express the joy that I felt on that mountain in words, it would take up about three paragraphs, but I've found that some experiences can not and should not be over-explained.

On my return to Bergen I went searching for a proper Norwegian meal. I was thinking ludafisk with lefsa for dessert, but the cheapest ludafisk I could find was roughly 80 American dollars, so I settled for a cheap hot dog and a Coke for dinner. That was one of my minor regrets about my trip, not once did I eat a Norwegian meal, I just sustained myself on those cheap hot dogs and cheap store-bought rolls. But that is actually how I like to travel, I would rather spend my money on an experience that doesn't consist of forks and knives. So that is why, on a whim, I decided to go to the tourist office and inquire about a fjord tour.

Since it was the off-season, nine out of ten of the tours were suspended until next summer, there was a coastal tour that seemed affordable but rather mundane which I thought about going on. But then I decided that I would fast for the next two days and opt for the proper tour of southwestern Norway that would wipe out my budget for the trip and my next week in London. After booking the trip I went back to my hostel, where I decided that I had spent too much money and ran back to the tourist office before it closed. But on the steps of the building I realized something, when would I get another chance to come to Norway? After all, these four months alone will put me in debt until I'm 40. I decided to go through with it, because after all, next time I make it back to this wonderful country I may be on the receiving end of Social Security checks and a rapidly receding hairline. I was going to do it right. So I spent the rest of the night in my comfortable hostel bed finishing yet another book and falling asleep before 11.

Saturday, December 1st The Norway-in-a-Nutshell Tour

December already!? I woke up two hours before sunrise, which would be early anywhere, unless it's Norway, and that means that it is half seven. I grabbed some rolls from the grocery store and boarded the train for Voss at around 8:30. By the time I got to Voss it was light out, and from there I took a bus to Gudvangen. The bus ride was actually quite enjoyable. We picked up a load of Norwegian teenagers that were all outfitted in winter garb and ski boots and drove up the mountain pass to the ski resort. It was essentially a blizzard, there were about five or six inches of snow on the road and the visibility was probably about twenty feet, but the bus driver still maintained a speed of 40-50mph around the snow-clogged hairpin curves - I am now a firm believer in the Norwegians' ability to drive in snow. After dropping off the teenagers we headed back down the mountain and towards Gudvangen, and after a ten-minute drive in a tunnel we emerged at the dock of the small village.

On the bus I noticed that there were only four other people on the same tour as me, and thought that it would be quite nice to not have to be herded as tourist cattle. But once getting on our boat, the Vetlefjord, I soon found that on this leg of the tour I would be accompanied by around fifty drunk Japanese tourists. So while they stayed in the cabin and drank their vodka, I was on deck in the cold with the crew. The scenery was breathtaking, and that is an understatement. Those two and a half hours on the Sognefjord, Næroyfjord and the Aurlandsfjorden were some of the best hours of all of my travels. The snow level was about 300 feet above us, so the bottom halves of the mountains were bare while the top halves were frosted with snow, it was truly beautiful. The Næroyfjord is listed as the most beautiful UN heritage site in the world, and I believe it. There were beautiful cascading waterfalls and quaint isolated Norwegian villages all alongside the banks of the fjord. There was a thick layer of low clouds, but I didn't mind one bit, those hills didn't need the sun in order to shine.

We stopped at a waterfall where some of the crew fetched some drinking water for the passengers. One of the villages along the fjord retrieves their drinking water from one of these waterfalls, and supposedly the inhabitants live to 95 or 100. So according to folklore and superstition the water has life-prolonging effects, I drank some because I was thirsty, but if I find myself living to a miserable age of 110, I know who and what is to blame.

We arrived in Flåm at around 2pm and were essentially forced into souvenir shops and cafes for the next hour while we waited for our train to leave. I got on the Flåmsbana train ("Flåm railway") with shoes and pants that were soaked from essentially wading through the streets as the daylight began to fade. The Flåmsbana is listed as the third steepest railway in the world, in 10 miles it climbs nearly 2500 vertical feet. The views of the valleys below were amazing, and for some reason my fear of heights were temporarily put on hold while we skirted around mountains with 1000 foot cliffs to our right or left.

We made a quick stop at a waterfall, the partially frozen Kjosfoss, which was truly the most magnificent waterfall I have ever seen. It was snowing rather hard, but luckily the train had a snowplow on the front of it. But I'm still trying to figure out, with the laws of physics being what they are, how we actually managed to get to Myrdal station. From Myrdal I took a train back to Bergen, and while slightly disappointed by the darkness outside, it was actually the most comfortable train ride I've ever taken. I am now realizing that these last three paragraphs have been littered with superlatives, and if I were exaggerating I would apologize, but I am not.

Upon my return to Bergen I soon realized that I had missed the annual Festival of Lights celebration by about an hour. But taking into account what an amazing day I just had, that was quite alright with me.

Sunday, December 2nd

Today was my last day in Norway, and to be honest I was not ready to leave. On every trip to the continent that I've taken thus far, I've always looked forward to returning to London - but I would have been fine staying in Norway for the next month or so. I took one last walk around the city, grabbed one last cheap hot dog, checked out of my hostel and boarded the bus for the Bergen airport. My flight took me to Newcastle, which lived up to its reputation for having English-speaking people that spoke a language that more resembled gibberish. After a two-hour layover and again being "randomly" frisked I was on the plane for London Stansted. I took the Stansted Express one last time back to London, and 10 hours after boarding the Flybussen in Bergen I was finally back in my London flat.

Norway is now on the top of my list for places I must visit again. My short time there made me very proud to be Norwegian. When I woke up the next morning I was hoping that I was still in Bergen.

Monday, December 3rd

Went to class from 1:30-8pm. Had my last session in Parliament for my British Politics class, which was actually quite sad for me. That class has been one of the best classes I have ever taken, and John Hayes MP is one of my new heroes. I have been so spoiled/blessed as to have had the opportunity to have class in Parliament once a week for the last fourteen weeks, not many people can say that they've done that. It was truly one of my favorite London experiences, and I am rather disappointed that it has come to a close.

Tuesday, December 4th

Finally, I caught up to today. I have been writing this thing for a good part of the day, trying to figure out how to type Norske characters such as å, æ, and ø, and I went to my Museums and Galleries class one last time. I am supposed to go to the Imperial War Museum for my History of London class tomorrow, which shouldn't be too new and interesting as I've already been there four or five times. But it is my one last field trip with some good friends, so I should probably go.

It is very odd to think that I will technically be coming home next week. I am looking forward to seeing my family, that is for sure. But to be honest I don't think I'm ready to leave. I think it's the realization that this may be the experience that I look back on in twenty years and say "those were some of the best months of my life". So it only seems natural to want to stretch it out as long as possible. My life here has been surreal, there's something about returning to the "real world" that doesn't sound to appealing. But I suppose you can't live off of student loans and maxed-out credit cards forever. I really am going to miss giving Brits directions around London. All I know is that if someone would have told me four months ago that I have x amount of dollars to spend in four months time, I would have retraced every step that I've taken and relived every experience, and isn't that the best that one can hope for?