Perhaps it is because they were always trying to keep the Swedes from invading, or the fact that when Norwegian kids go to school, they have the option of attending a school in a completely different town, living away from home, or you can go back to the Viking era when Norwegians had no agriculture or food, so they went out into the world to take what they needed.

Whatever the reason, Norwegians are Hurtig, a Norwegian word meaning strong, energetic and certainly independent. It’s the name of their coastal boat that goes up and down the long country–Hurtigruten. www.hurtigruten.com.

How else can you explain that not once, but twice, Norwegians have voted NO to joining the European Union EU. They can do it themselves, thank you very much. We like our Kroner (currency) and we don’t need to melt into a union to define ourselves.

I am impressed.

Melanie

Ok, yes they are mostly blond haired individuals, tall with blue eyes, but I have observed more subtle characteristics over the past two weeks. Here’s a few thoughts:

1. I mentioned before that Norwegians are polite. But here is an incident that goes beyond not jay walking.

I went for a run one morning in Bergen then stopped off at a 7-11 (yes, it is sad but they are everywhere) for a coffee. While in line, a homeless man was talking non-stop to the clerk. It was around 8am on a Tuesday morning. People were in line with their morning coffee and donuts. The line up started to curl around the counter. Still, the clerk listened to him and everyone in line was also just as patient. No one said a word. A few people looked at their watches, and decided to leave to get to work on time but at no point, and we were standing there for a good 15 minutes, did anyone get flustered or angry. Impressive.

2. TRUSTING. This characteristic goes beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed in any other culture. It starts with Norwegians leaving their bags unattended while they go to the bathroom in the airport, or any where else for that matter. But this is more than just leaving a bag. While having a coffee, yes, I drink tons of java, I saw a woman outside leave her baby, her newborn child, in a busy square while she walked, not ran, inside to get a coffee. A baby. Seriously.

Bjornar explained that trusting might be on the slide, however. Apparently Romanians are flying into Norway, not entering the country, and stealing bags at the airport, then flying home right away. It is an epidemic he says. They come in groups and make their way through the airport stealing and then go home. Some from Lithuania too.

I will blog about a few more traits after. I just had a huge bike ride and am famished.

Melanie

“Are you here to do the goat?” Pardon, I say to the girl at the hostel in Slovær. It is not some weird Norwegian ritual. The goat, or www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7TtTbosE0E, is a famous rock climb. If you look straight up into the mountains overlooking Svolvær, you’ll see a cone shape peak and then on the top of that two vertical rocks side-by-side–see the rocks above?

“Doing the goat” means hopping from the higher rock face to the lower one, all the while ropped in, but it has become harder in recent years because part of the second rock fell off. It looks insane but for a day or so I was contemplating doing it, with a guide, of course. Then the girl at the hostel showed me the video of the jump, a bunch of whacky kids doing it, then I thought better of it. I ain’t a young punk anymore! No goat for Mel. At least for now.

Instead, I did a sensible two hour climb just to the edge of that peak. I saw some sheep and then when the weather turned bad, like a good girl, I headed back down. Which brings me to the weather…it Norway, it can turn bad in a second. That is why so many people–kids, grannies, you name it– wear high tech Gore Tex all the time.

Here’s some pictures above Slovaer on my hike:

While I was hiking, I looked out towards the ocean: it was sunny and the sea glistened. I turned around and it looked like bloody hell was heading my way.

Some friends along the way…

I’m here in the city of Bergen now and it was sunny all day then broke into torrential downpour just a moment ago.

Here’s the famous Bergen fish houses (they almost tore them down a few decades ago). Now they’re a UNESCO world heritage site. I spent one day in Bergen and then had to flee–too many tourists. It was like Niagara Falls on steroids. Spoilt the beauty.

BERGEN FISH HOUSES

The day before I left Svolvær I took a boat tour of the Fllorfjord (I have to check the spelling when I have time). But in the early 1900s there was a battle here between the rich steamship owners and the poor wooden boat owners.

They were fighting over cod.

THE GREAT COD BATTLE FOLKS! Apparently after some axe flying and what not, the fishermen finally got down to fishing and caught over one million cod. Can you believe it? Can you imagine the stench?

Here’s some pictures of the tour.

Where the battle occured:

And, it was chilly on deck.

So it was on this tour where I met my Italian friends. We took pictures of one another and watched as an eagle swooped down and plucked a fish from the sea. Amazing.

Anywho, I have to go cause my Internet time is up. This is costing me mega kroner kiddies.

Talk soon.

Melanie

Ok, I crawled off the ferry at 9pm in Svolvær. And as luck would have it, I introduced myself to a couple from Sweden…Anna and Swiller (I am totally hacking his name…he’s French). Anywho, they were here last week after a trip to the south islands and they told me about a great camp site. A little island, parallel to the main village.

Anna, S and I walked over the bridge to the camp site, the week before they asked the old woman at the nearby house …in Norway you can camp anywhere as long as you ask the homeowner. The island sits on the shore and the coolest thing: there are tiny stone bunkers all around built by the Germans during the war. It is eerie.

GERMAN BUNKER next to a rack for drying cod fish (in the background).

COD RACK.

From my tent I could see the mountains and little fishing houses built on stilts in the harbour.  Made for fishermen many years ago, Rorbu as they are called, have been transformed into cozy little bed and breakfasts for tourists.

Here’s some Rorbu in Slovaer:

Anna and S made some soup and shared chocolate on a pic nic table as we watched the ferry leaving — a distant light disappearing into the mountains.

The next day I was on my own so I rented a bike. I left my tent and belongings at the site, as Anna said it was safe. There is only one road linking the islands and it follows the ocean for most of it. Five kms south of Slovær I came across the town of Kabelvåg and Norway’s second largest wooden church. Looks like a brown and beige dollhouse.

Here’s the church:

I stopped off at a long stretch of beach–I took off my hiking boots and walked in the cold ocean. Felt so good.

Dippin’ the toes:

And one more of the beach, cause it was overwhelmingly gorgeous, above.

Coming over the bridge to Henningsvær I saw an old woman fishing. The line was tight–she caught a big sucker and I watched as she walked to the end of the bridge, fixed the pole in place and ran down to the shore to grab her catch. After she unhooked it, she looked up at me, smiled and held the fish above her head.

Here’s the lady fisherwoman:

Moving on, I came into Henningsvær, which sits at the bottom of a clump of islands–about 26 kms from Svolvær. Lots of shops and cobblestone walks. The bike guy told me about an amazing fish restaurant so that was my goal. I found FISKERROGEN easily. It is one of the most popular spots.

Overlooking the ocean, I ordered A TASTE OF LOFOTEN: muscles, potatoes, salted cod in a tomato broth (a Portuguese recipe I was told) and fried cod tongues.

I washed it down with a Pilsner, of course. But the grand finale was the dessert: RABARBRAKOMPOTE. Rhubard compote. The waitress told me locals eat this in their homes. Served in a tall parfait dish, it was layers of pistachio cake, rhubarb puree and topped with vanilla cream and fresh local berries. I ate every spoonful. I even stuck my finger in the glass!

Today, after the worst sleep–it rained pretty violently and the wind shook my tent all night, and to top it off,  I was cold despite my new silk bag liner. I was bugged-eyed all night. Slept ner a wink I say.

My Norwegian home.

Today, I will hike and perhaps visit a museum. I feel at home in Norway. I am from Newfoundland and this is so similar. My tent home is set up near the ocean, I hear the waves and the seagulls. I can smell the salt and the fish in the air. The mountains are giant and eerie, but they are protective. You just look up and they will guide you. I do not feel like a stranger here. Reading my book last night and sipping on a box of wine outside of my tent, I was content.

Tomorrow, after a whale watching ferry ride, I head to the city…Bergen.

Write soon mes amies.

Melanie (sorry if this sounds hurried…my Internet time is running out!)

We passed the Arctic Circle at 7am. I woke up to more dramatic mountains outside the boat–taller and spikier. Less homes. Had two coffee (72 kroner=$12 CAN). Norwegians, oddly enough, drink more coffee per ca-pita in the world. It’s strong. I also bought a Lil Lefsa, a rolled up potato crepe filled with sugary butter. Then, some yogurt and granola, of coarse. Granola rules here.

The boat is full of elder Germans and Italians on some kind of excursion. Lots of picture taking. Last night they played scrabble, only until 10pm though, then they retired and I was the only one left. Quiet.

Here’s my boat; the Hurtigruten (coastline ferry ride) experience:

It is noticeably cooler on deck. About 12 degrees. Glad I have good gear…my Icelandic wool sweater and lime green Norrøna coat. Yes, did you see that? øøøøøø

That is pronounced Norr–’eau’ na. Norweigians have three letters that don’t appear in the English language. There is also an ‘a’ with an ”e’ squished beside it like so: æ. Say: *’ahhh.’ Finally, an ‘a’ with a circle above it: ‘å’ that is pronounced ‘ohh.’

PRACTICE, open wide:       æ…ahhhh.        å…ohhhhhhh.    ø…eauuuuu.

Bjrnar says that Norwegian cows say: meauuuuuu (møw) and not muuuuuu (mow) like in English.

It is 9am. Six hours left.

If I see anything even mildly cool I will be blogging about it as the Internet is free. Plus, it keeps me occupied. Eww. They have a smoking room. Glass room filled with white smoke swirls of cancer.

Back in a bit.

Drinking Pilsner, MACK from Tromso in northern Norway, Bjrnar and I passed a glass of Aquavit back and forth until 2am. We swapped bits of culture throughout the evening. Starting with the paintings on his walls. He has six paintings–all in a row–of his favourite artists: Lars Ole Klavestad and his sister Anne Sofu Klavestad.

He’s particularily partial to the drawing of a woman squating, looking at a paper heart floating away. On the ground is a limp colourless flower. “This one is sad,” says B. I can tell it makes him think of someone, or some time in his life.

John Lennon–the two CD’s finish and so he pops in a local band: The Dum Dum Boys. I’m floored– it’s complete garage band style rock. After a few tunes, I hand him my Ipod. Sarah McLachlan. “She’s got a nice voice,” he says. I flip to some Sloan. He’s mildly impressed. But, when I turn on New Orleans is Sinking by the Hip, he pushes a piece of paper towards me gesturing to write it down. A new Hip fan.

It is now 2:30 and I’m on the ferry …15 hours. I will write momentarily. Right now the sun is shining and I am going to grab a deck chair and watch the Fjords. Sailing through the towns, plain square houses sit in the rocks like colourful lego. In Osen, a village of a few houses, two little girls in matching pink raincoats wave from the wharf. A teenage boy fishes.

On this ferry from Trondheim to Lofoten we pass through eight of Norway’s 19 counties–only two of these counties are not on the coast. ‘Our fjords are our fields,’ says a blond and robust guide who is giving a short talk.

Here’s a few pictures of the view from on deck.

A lone boat:

Another…

I am going to brush my teeth, then slip into my sleeping bag and fall asleep on a hard sofa. Without a cabin for the night (it still cost $400 CAN), I am roughing it. No worries, I got the Ipod full of tunes.

Later friends.

Melanie

This is a short blog before I leave tomorrow on a 15 hour ferry ride to Lofoton Islands. I bought some Norwegian literature for the voyage, which came highly recommended from the guy at the Chapters-like bookstore. I have Berlin Papers by Anne B. Ragde, a story about a mother who is dieing and the family that comes to visit in her last days. Then I have Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson. Winner of the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, it’s about a boy who spends the summer in the country with his father and how the events of that summer change his life, forever. Hope it’s not too depressing for the trip.

Today I biked around Trondheim and I took a 10 minute ferry to Monk Island. First a monastery where monks made beer and hung out with maids (apparently the town warned them about their rowdiness more than once); the small island was later turned into a prison. On a lone island two kilometres from the mainland, it has a very alcatraz feel looming out in the water.

But before the munks, around 952 AD, the founder of Trondheim brought the heads of his two enemies to the island and impaled them on stakes. Visitors were required to either spit or throw rocks at the heads; if they didn’t, there was consequences. Yikes. It’s the Viking mentality. I didn’t see any of this kind of behaviour today as I strolled along the river that is lined with red and yellow former fish warehouses — once a popular Viking ship building port.

Today, Trondheim is a mighty polite town: no one ever jay walked. Norweigians patiently waited for the green light, even if a car wasn’t in sight.

It’s a student town and it’s the week before classes begin. Twentysomethings are out having beer at the cafes, of which there are tons, and stocking up on toilet paper and lugging bags of groceries to their new flats.

Tonight, I am drinking Aquavit, potato liquor that comes is dozens of varieties and has a menthol aftertaste. Bjrnar and I are listening to John Lennon’s solo CD. I will miss him. He’s one of a kind.

ok, so after two planes, then missing a train because of a delay in Iceland, I met Bjrnar in Lillehammer, town of the 1994 Olympics. But I should preface this…I bought the most gorgeous pure wool, handknit sweater in the Iceland airport…shiny multicoloured Albion buttons in the front and a lovely brown and grey yolk around the neck…timeless. Sad. I shop to survive!

The sweater, which is shown here in Lofoten, later in the trip.

I got off the train in Lillehammer, after a two hour train ride through the mountains and lakes (feels so British Columbia), and then stepped off to see a tall blond man waving at me. I was so excited … I started waving like mad and running towards Bjrnar, or a man who looked like Bjrnar. I turn around to discover he’s waving at the woman in back of me. Gulp. Idiot.

He finally arrived and we went to the grocery store — Soft sheep’s cheese and some cracked brown bread. The drive to Hjerkinn in the Dourefjela Sunndalsfjela National Park in Central Norway was pristine: we’re in the valley where glacier ice collected thousands of years ago and then melted funnelling out towards the sea–this is how the fjords were created. It’s lush green forest and clear blue lakes. The hillside is dotted with a red cabin here and there.

That night at the campside, everyone camps in Norway, Bjrnar bbq’s salmon with peppers, onions and baby tomatoes in tinfoil. We’re staying in a traditional log cabin with grass that grows on the roof, which acts as insulation in the winter and cooling in the summer–it looks like the cabin sprouted from the ground. We drink some Norwegian beer with a viking ship on the can and then chow down on some fresh summer strawberries and cream. Despite the jet lag, Canadian is six hours behind, I head to bed pooped at 11am and sleep the entire night uninterrupted.

A grassy roof cabin:

The next day we ride as Bjrnar has also brought me a mountain bike. Bjrnar scares me as we check in: going up to the mountains, it’s required to document your plans –a safety precaution.

Here’s B signing us in:

In addition to drawing your trail plan on the map, you must provide your estimated trip time. He writes 8 hours. Gulp. Then he points to the top of a snow covered mountain–’we go there.’ I squint my eyes to see the peak surrounded in clouds.

We started riding through the valley when he throws me another curve ball:  “beware of the Musk Ox,” a prehistoric looking ox with antlers, similar to a Buffalo. “If you scare one, he will charge you…a tourist was killed last year.” Fabulous. On my gravestone it will read: Melanie Chambers.  Crushed by a prehistoric beast in Norway.

Here’s one, from a distance:

Luckily when we did spot a family, they were off the road and didn’t look particularly interested in us. The large ones huddled around the two babies.  They were beautiful: long brown fur draped over their backsides like a skirt and their horns curled like a fancy white mustache.

Later on,  points up: wild reindeer–hundreds of them. They were too far away to see in detail, but I could make out fancy swirly antlers.

Crossing over bridges, we only stopped briefly to fill our waterbottles in the rushing river.

By this time the jet lag is setting in. We’ve gone about 48 kilometers over crushed gravel roads, up countless hills when we start our final climb –another 4 km–to Snoheim. Built in 1952 as a hotel and respite for hikers, today the brown cabin with red shutters desperately needs a paint job. Bjrnar explains that many Norwegians want the road up to the cabin removed complaining that ‘civilization’ is encroaching upon nature. Until the fate of the road is decided, the cabin remains abandoned. If they decide to keep the road, the cabin will be restored. If not, it will be destroyed.

Here’s Snoheim:

We hide the bikes behind the cabin and start walking around the lake–I’m almost running to keep up to him. At the base of the mountain, we start climbing over pointy rocks. Bjrnar is hopscotching over them like a ballerina. I’m dieing and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. It’s 3pm. He turns around, seeing me struggling; “enjoy this,” he says smacking his fist into his hand. He’s right. I stop mentally whining and pick up the pace. This is living. On the right hand side on the mountain, the glacier is melting into a green pool of water and the sun is sparkling on top of it.

Here’s some pics from the climb:

And more beauty:

And here is the ballerina I spoke of…

After the rocks, we hit a patch of snow. I’m walking in snow in August. Love it. Above is my friend.

At the peak, the rain and wind are setting in. Two men are building a radio tower, I can hear music. No word of a lie, it’s Bryan Adams’ “Summer of 69″ in Norweigian. I yell, ‘he’s Canadian,’ half ashamed and half proud that Adams is our most popular singer. Why not ‘Leonard Cohen?’

We begin our descent. Again, Bjrnar is tip toeing over the rocks like an agile 13-year-old, until he stops, then sits down. Bjrnar never sits down. “Are you ok?” “No,” he replies. I know it’s serious–this man sits down for nothing. Turns out he whacked his ankle on a rock and can’t stand. But of coarse, he hobbles his way down, holding onto rocks to keep the pressure off his foot.

Long story short: I spent the afternoon in the hospital with Bjrnar in Trondheim, north of the park. He fractured his ankle bone and got a cast. He’s so bummed because he’s doing a race in three weeks. He asked the nurse if he can ride a stationary bike with his cast. He’s my hero.

Here’s downtown Trondheim; these are old fishing warehouses on the river:

And a cafe with tons of university kids…

A local bike shop, my fav:

Next post: I’m travelling up past the Arctic Circle to the Lofoten Islands on a friggin 10 hour ferry ride through the Fjords. Write soon.

Melanie

Tall, blond, blue eyes, and determined to climb mountains–Bjrnar Svenning was my first encounter with Norwegians. I met him on a cycling trip in Italy. When our guide told us we couldn’t climb the highest peak in Sardinia that day, “it’s too icy and dangerous,” he said, Bjrnar scoffed. “I paid for this, I’m climbing.” So he did; the rest of us huddled into the truck, watching Bjrnar disappear into a thick fog.

He’s a force to be reckoned with and one of the reasons I am heading to Norway on Friday for a few weeks. The other reason is to camp — anywhere I want–over a cliff, near a Fjord, by the ocean…

In Norway you can camp anywhere as long as it’s 150 metres from a residence. It’s part of their Right of Access law that says everyone has the right to explore through uncultivated land in the countryside, regardless of who owns it. I like this law.

So, I went to my local MEC (www.mec.ca) outdoor store with a list, a long list, to ensure I was prepped for setting up a campsite solo. Here’s what I am packing for two weeks of camping, hiking and biking in Norway:

1.  One person tent. The MSR Hubba Tent (as opposed to the 2-person Hubba Hubba) is only 1.3 kg in weight–my purse weighs more than this thing. It might be claustrophobic for men; I found it a tight squeeze and I’m not a big girl.

2. Foamy mattress as opposed to an air mattress — lighter and easier to carry. Bring bungee cords to attach to the backpack.

3. Pelican micro-case. This is a waterproof airtight case large enough for cell phone and my Ipod; I also plan to download some Norwegian music; some notable musicians and bands include Royksopp, Radka, Geir Jenssen and Lass Marhaug. Maybe I’ll catch a metal band concert–Norwegians love metal! Rock on.

4. Rain gear and notable clothing: a waterproof shell backpack cover. Most backpacks are not 100% waterproof. This handy cover slips over the outside of the pack and keeps everything dry–a good thing when you’re camping.

*Three pairs of Teko organic wool hiking socks. Wool is warm and durable. Plus, if you get extra cold, which I’m anticipating if I go past the Arctic Circle, I can always wear a pair of cycling socks plus the wool.

*Quick Dry towel. This is indispensible. When I rode for a week in Ontario, I attached the towel to my backpack and it air dried perfectly–it’s also super light and packs up tight taking almost no room in my pack.

*Petzl E-Lite. A headlamp is a must for camping. But considering I’m visiting the land of the midnight sun, I might not need it too much, come to think of it. Between late May and mid August no part of southern Norway experiences true darkness; above the Arctic Circle, northern Norway, at 66 and 33′ north and south latitude, the sun never truly sets during this time.

*Salomon hiking boots. I bought the ankle high ones a few years ago–good ankle support if you are scaling some steep rocky stuff. Just outside of Oslo there is a 1,200 km system of trails. If hiking in August, which I am, the Lonely Planet guidebook suggests bringing a bucket for blueberries. Yum.

*Bike Shorts. When I arrive in Oslo, I’m taking a train to Hjerkinn. It’s located in the Jutunheimen National Park, north of Oslo. Apparently it’s a biking haven. I also plan to do some city riding: Oslo, and the city of Trondheim to the north, have free bikes for day excursions.

*About 20 Cliff bars. Everything is expensive in Norway so I plan to eat my fair share of energy bars; a pint of beer runs about $9 CAN and even hostels run about $80 a night. Hostels!

The rest of my pack consists of some quick dry clothes and a hat for those cool Norwegian nights in a tent and, of coarse, a flower printed scarf that has no purpose other than adding a bit of femininity.

Ha det (good bye) for now. I will be blogging on the road so stay tuned.

Melanie