Denmark and Norway

The train from Hannover up to Copenhagen was a treat (in first class): part of the car was the “silence zone” and separated from the rest of first class (only a few of us in there anyway) by a glass sliding door. There was free hot coffee/tea available and an attendant brought around a bread roll with some jam and cheese. When the train got close to the Danish border, it literally rolled into the multi-storey ferry that would take us over the sea for an hour. All passengers are requested to leave the train and enter the ferry, where a variety of money-loving shops charge exorbitant prices for so-called ‘duty free’ goods. The crossing was pleasant if not a bit warm. The sea was its usual grey color, not as inviting as the Persian Gulf, and watching the water from the top deck brought back a lot of Dubai memories of the beach.
Copenhagen is a strange city, and for me, not appealing. The architecture is pretty enough in the city center, but the place just looks tired. I would expect this in southern Europe but not in Scandinavia. You’ll see in the photos. I just didn’t think the town was clean enough, and of course as in all of northern Europe, there are the usual collection of drunks and other nutters at the train station and in the tiny enclaves of “parks”. The station itself is high-ceilinged with great wooden rafters and a kind of arcade of shops in the center. Exiting the station to find my hostel, I walked up the street for about ten minutes until I spotted a sign of cardboard with the word “hostel” and an arrow pointing the way. The place is imaginatively called “City Hostel” (I wonder who came up with that). A sweeping lawn in the front contained a few kids sitting here and there on blankets, some munching on food. Inside there was a nice ‘lobby’ area with comfy chairs and sofas. Several travelers were on their laptops, predictably. The guy who registered me was helpful and in short order, I was lodged in ROOM 3, just behind the luggage room. I had to pay $8 extra for sheets and $5 for breakfast, which was a bummer (almost every hostel I’d been in thus far included sheets and breakfast). The place lacked the charm of Hostel Mostel but was superior to the claustrophobic Butterfly Villa Hotel in Bucharest. After throwing the sheets on my bunk and halfway tucking them under the mattress, I took off to explore the town in what light was remaining of the day.
I don’t have much to report. I walked back down to the train station and further on past the famous Tivoli, the great “amusement park” famous for rides, gardens, restaurants, and entertainment. I checked the prices at the main entrance, only to find that entrance alone (forget the rides) would run me about fifteen dollars. For “charming”, I decided to give it a miss. I wandered on down past the city square, where a series of smaller pedestrian-only streets wander here and there. Since darkness was approaching, I hung out in the square for awhile before heading back to the hostel for some needed sleep.

The next morning, I explored further on down the same street where I’d left off the night before. Several twists and little bridges kept me busy studying the map, but I wound up at a charming street that dead-ended at a seawall. Across an expanse of water were more buildings, but the scent of the sea was refreshing, and the buildings along here were the old four and five story wooden structures that are uniquely Scandinavian. Each building was a different color: rust red, mustard yellow, light green. In a wide canal in the middle of the “street” were all manner of sailboats and small yachts. Seagulls called out and tourists ambled, the richer ones idling at outdoor cafes with prices to shock. In fact, prices at McDonalds were shocking (though not as bad as the $17 I’d paid in Switzerland). I’d noticed that a number of the kids (and older folks) staying at the hostel had visited the little supermarket near the hostel, but I was tired of bread (oh, my paid-for breakfast at the hostel had been BREAD, with only plastic-wrapped cheese slices to put on it, and two types of cereal. In short, a rip-off. So where to eat today? While online in the lobby, I noted a traveler’s review of a Turkish buffet she’d enjoyed while in Copenhagen; I was pretty sure I’d seen one on the way to the hostel, so I walked down the now-familiar street until, sure enough, a cute-enough café appeared, out front of which was a sign advertising a 49 Kroner buffet. That’s about six bucks so I hurried in. You couldn’t even get a Big Mac meal for that price. I wasn’t disappointed. There were several kinds of salad, mouth-watering boiled potatoes in buttery sauce, lamb, beef, pasta, veggies; I ate 3 plates of food and waddled away with no money left in my pocket but without hunger in my tummy. The food had been as good as in some of the Dubai restaurants.

I had wanted to see Norway because It’s one of two European countries to which I’d never been (the other being Albania). Since it was mid-summer, I thought to head first to Oslo and then take the train further north, close to the Arctic Circle. So I was keen to leave Copenhagen, which wasn’t doing anything for me. In the evening, I checked out of City Hostel and walked to the station. There, I checked in at a little counter just next to the train (rather unusual) and was given a berth for the trip. It cost an extra forty bucks but would be worth it, tired as I was. Inside the dimly-lit four-berth cabin, a guy was in the lower bunk; thankfully, the other bunks were empty and I hoped they’d stay that way. The dude was probably in his early twenties, I guessed, and when I asked , him if he were from “here”, he replied in a southern accent and chuckle, “No, from Alabama.” His name was Hunter, and we chatted for awhile until I climbed up into my bunk and went through the usual ritual of tucking in sheets and changing into shorts. The window didn’t open, which was irritating (oh how I missed those southern European trains now), but a slight draft somehow cooled the cabin down a bit.

When I woke, the sun seemed to be halfway up into the sky but my alarm clock told me 6:30am. I returned to sleep, occasionally waking to look out the window at passing meadows, rolling hills, then bigger green-covered hills, and villages. I was surprised to find that many of the houses that zoomed by looked similar to American houses—those of a certain style, of course, especially the ones I’d seen in the mountains of Colorado. Hunter awoke and we agreed to hang out together for the day; my train would leave around 2:30pm and his a bit later. Neither of us had wanted to spend the forty bucks a night minimum that a hostel would charge!

Oslo was so very different from Copenhagen and utterly delightful. These two cities had nothing in common. Whereas Copenhagen had that slightly dingy quality with dark-brick buildings, Oslo was bright, cheery, modern and yet you could see the older style architecture here and there. The city was also a bit hillier though nothing demanding, and quite clean. There were even a few high-rises (ten stories or so), glass and metal, and trams ferrying people to and fro. The citizenry this early morning, no doubt on their way to work, were garbed in brighter more colorful clothing than in other European countries, particularly Denmark. I liked the place immensely after only 5 minutes. The prices were insane, but we intended to visit a grocery store quite soon.

Basically, we wandered up to an old fortress, where a sixty-something gentleman behind the counter at the museum part told us, in flawless British English, that the museum would open in a couple of hours. “But tell you what, why don’t you go have a look now,” to which we replied our thanks gratefully. Something free in Norway! Our self-tour was interesting. Everything related to the wars fought from medieval times through the world wars and even a bit on the Norwegian contingent in present-day Afghanistan. Weapons, chain mail, cannons, etc. After looking around, we chatted a bit with the attendant again before wandering down a winding road and onto a main street. At a tiny supermarket (about the only kind Europe has), I bought a coke, bread, and a banana. There was a park nearby, a covered café in the midst of it, and benches, so we sat on a bench, munched food and people watched. Very pleasant.
Later in the morning, we went to a museum that housed the famous THE SCREAM painting by Edward Munch, a Norwegian. His famous painting of a human being standing on a bridge with hands clasped to ears and with mouth open is kind of scary if you ask me but for 1893 the comment about society was vivid. Anyway, the National Gallery of Norway was located near the university in a nicely shaded old neighborhood, and not very imposing, the museum nevertheless was a surprising little gem: it contained a few works by Van Gogh, Gaugin and Picasso—but for the most part, after seeing a few of the masters (there weren’t many) and about two minutes of the modern abstract junk (I mean, material), I gazed happily at various landscapes, always my favorite.
Trondheim Norway.

The afternoon train took me north through a gorgeous valley, following a lake for what seemed like hours. Mostly the train, filled to capacity, and with only second class seating, followed the water. In the distance (and not so far) were low green mountains. Most people, when they think of Norway (and granted, it’s not something that pops into most people’s minds at odd hours of the day), they imagine cute fjords (deep lakes with cliffs rising on all sides). But I had decided to head north towards the midnight sun instead.

My fellow passenger was a very pretty young woman (Nordic features, blond hair, etc) who was heading to some small town to work in a hotel for a month. Her English was fantastic (like all Norwegians!) , having lived in London for some time. We chatted on and off while admiring the fine scenery. There was no air conditioning on the train and the day was warm, so it was uncomfortable. I was happy to finally reach Trondheim at around 9:30pm. It seemed like noon! I would have admired the bright sky even more had I not had so much trouble finding my way to the hostel. Nothing was open at the station, no information, no nothing. Outside the station, a clean fresh-looking river flowed past some old wooden buildings that looked to be from the previous century (that is, the 19th). The place was nice, even from the train station.

The problem was that I’d printed out the “directions” to the hostel, but now they seemed woefully inadequate. It turned out to be a complaint that others shared. At any rate, after getting partial directions from a rather rotund African man (really out of place in this society from what I could see), and later from a local youth, I made it across a wide pedestrian-only bridge and passed some riverfront shops and cafes. Then I crossed a street, observed a sharply ascending hill, and thought: now where? As God was with me, an old gentleman in his 7o’s I imagine came into view on an otherwise empty street. “Excuse me,” I said, and showed him the poor map the hostel had provided. “Ah, yes,” he said in flawless English. “Follow me, I’m going that way myself.” He led me up the hill (one of those steep hills that you fret about in San Francisco), chatting about the usual stuff with me (where I was from, the trip, that he was retired, etc). At the peak, he pointed to the left and said, “It’s just another two minute walk.” Saying Goodbye, I went my way and he went further up the hill. I noted that I was out of breath and he was doing fine.
The hostel was a good one if not expensive. There was only one that I knew of in Trondheim. The girl at the desk was efficient and friendly. I was surprised to learn that sheets were extra; well, I thought, I came to Norway—Europe’s most expensive country. After checking in, I walked up a stairwell to the second floor. There was a long antiseptic-looking corridor, quite bland, leading to the room I was to share with three others. One was a French guy with a speech impediment and poor English; as I messed with getting some stuff rearranged in my backpack, he jabbered on about the necessity of seeing some churches because they were in such-and-such a style from the Middle ages when French influence…and so on.

I didn’t have time to explore since it was already 10:30pm. Well, I did really since it wouldn’t get dark until after 2am, but I was tired. I took a shower—carefully keeping my sandals on in the less-than-sparkling bathroom—and then sauntered on down to a tiny supermarket to buy the only thing I could afford: a small bottle of water and some bread. Oh, and a banana. I decided the Auschwitz diet might be a good thing for a few days.

The next day the weather was grand. Heading out after a fairly decent free breakfast, I met a young couple and began chatting. They were American though the guy, in his twenties and named Lars, was of Norwegian lineage. His girlfriend looked partially Asian and was fairly quiet. We decided to walk to the cathedral together. The cathedral being, naturally enough, the ‘Trondheim Cathedral’, and quite famous all throughout Europe. On the way, Lars talked a lot about how he had relatives here in Trondheim and how he was going to hook up with them. “Yeah, my uncle’s a cool guy. I saw him, I don’t know, maybe 20 years ago.”

The day was splendid. Warm, sunny, a delightful little mountain river that wound through the town, quaint buildings, trees, parks. I wished I could stay for a month, but then, I don’t have Bill Gates’ bank account. We walked through a well-shaded cemetery as the cathedral loomed over us, imposing and beautiful. As we approached the front of the cathedral, we noted the entrance fee, which came to about ten bucks. I have a major problem with anyone charging an entry fee for a house of God, so on principle alone I didn’t pay. Neither did Lars and his girlfriend. Instead, we headed to the town center. There was a square, tourists, kind of the same thing you run into in so many towns in Europe, but the place was charming and we sat at a café for awhile. I don’t remember much about the rest of the day because we just wandered before heading back to the hostel for a rest.

The next morning, I walked to the train station and bought my reservation for the return trip to Oslo. I would be leaving that afternoon, so in the meantime, Lars, his girlfriend, and an Asian couple they had met the evening before all went out to see some sights. “There’s a fortress or something nearby,” the young Asian man said. As we all five walked down a neighborhood of five-story apartment buildings, we chatted about where we were from, etc. etc. The youth, who introduced himself as MEE, was from Laos and had been studying in Stockholm Sweden for a couple years or so. His friend (maybe girlfriend?) was Chinese and had pretty much grown up in Sweden and considered herself Swedish. The two were making this trip during some holidays.

The fortress, when we rather stumbled upon it, was both disappointing and inspiring at the same time. It didn’t seem there was much left of the fortress. A couple of white stone walls and a tower, some ruins. But the view was fantastic. Perched on a high hill, the site overlooked the city on three sides below. The cathedral poked its spires above some green woodland, and the river flowed past a couple of bridges far below. The breeze was pleasant, and for the most part, after shooting dozens of pics (mostly of each other in various poses), we lazed on the grass and chatted quite contentedly.

I stayed as long as I could, but about 1pm, I returned to the hostel, collected my backpack, and walked back to the train station, now a familiar route. Luckily, the train back to Oslo had a first class car! I was very thankful that it was air conditioned and delightfully empty. I plopped down in a seat, took out a newspaper, and alternated between reading news articles and gazing out the window for the next several hours.

ANOTHER LITTLE TRIP: Bern and Lyon
I stayed in Hannover a week after returning from Scandinavia. But since I still had five days left on the rail pass, I thought to return to visit Felix in Bern. I emailed him asking if I might return for a night, and he wrote back, “Of course, I think two nights is better.” God bless Felix. I caught the train the next morning from the Hannover Hauptbahnhof and enjoyed a six hour trip down to Bern. This time I remembered how to get to Felix’s apartment so after a short ride on the tram (illegal as usual since I had no ticket), I walked with ease to his place. He was already waiting for me, having prepared some more fondue. “We’re going over to Manfred’s apartment again,” he announced with a smile. “And Theo is coming over, too.”

So we had another evening on Manfred’s terrace! This time, Manfred’s wife Kathrin joined us for the fondue and drinks and jokes. I tried Felix’s method of dipping the speared bread into a shot glass of schnapps and then into the bubbling cheese. The taste was heavenly—if there’s schnapps in Heaven of course. Tonight’s weather was even better than the last time. The air was only slightly cool, and in the far distance were the Swiss Alps—which had remained invisible on my previous visit. At sundown, a splash of crimson (a phrase WAY overused by writers, btw) lit the mountains like magic, and for the thousandth time, I gave thanks that I no longer lived in Dubai.

Felix had persuaded me to stay two nights (“Hey,” he said when I’d first arrived, “You can stay as long as you like; you always have a home here.”), and I decided to follow his recommendation to take the train down to Lausanne and then take the boat from there to Montreaux—and then ride a scenic train back to Bern. It would be an all-day trip but nice, he promised. And he wasn’t exaggerating. The sky was sunny as the train (Yeah, first class on a Swiss train, which means ‘upstairs’ in a booth-like seating area) wound through hills and valleys. In Lausanne, located in French-speaking Switzerland, I spent an hour or so down by the monstrously huge Lake Geneva. Foolishly, I’d neglected to charge my batteries (it always happens when you most need them), so I had to go into a little store and fork out $13 on some AA batteries. To punish myself, I skipped lunch (though I did buy a coke and some bread).  The boat was a two-deck ferry that took passengers to several stops along the lake. The second level was first class, so I got to either stand on the deck and admire the mountains in the distance or sit inside and rest my eyes from the glare of the sun (darn, losing those sunglasses in Norway!). For two hours, I snapped pictures, daydreamed, and relished the views of low mountains, many vineyard covered, and the towns that were built at levels on them. The whole thing was quaint as hell.

I disembarked in the city of Monteux. I couldn’t really tell any difference between this city and Lausanne: both were French speaking, built on the hillside, and had the same architecture and outdoor cafes. I just kind of wandered. I climbed a very lengthy set of outside steps that led up to higher street levels. I chose one neighborhood lined with shops and ambled along it until coming to a tiny supermarket. I bought an apple and some bread (no need for coke since the apple has juice inside, right?) and after awhile, walked back down to the lake, chose a spot among some trees, and ate my snack (also called ‘meal of the day’). At first I was annoyed by a couple sparrows who hopped close to my feet hoping, no doubt, for a few crumbs of my expensive Swiss bread. I pinched off a crumb and tossed it a few feet away, hoping they’d be happy and fly off. But of course not. It was like offering dollar bills to a hobo; the sparrows came back with some of their friends, so I wound up pinching off tiny bits and throwing them out. Most of the time, one sparrow or another dominated the foodfest, snatching the crumb and flying off—others angrily retorting and then coming back to Master Scott.

After all that fun, I climbed the hill again and found a café. I bought a pot of tea from an Asian waitress behind the bar and sat outside for awhile, cooling off and reading another chapter of the novel I was carrying, The Final Diagnosis. Reading about an autopsy and glancing at French architecture and the lake beyond was incongruous—but variety is the spice of life.

The scenic train ride back was delightfully and thankfully slow—nearly as slow as an Amtrak train heading through Iowa. But this train was a bit different, with less classy interiors but those wonderful windows that you can pull down so that you can stand, put your head out and really be one with nature and the wind. I hadn’t done this since Romania. Northern Europeans, like their American counterparts, tend to frown on open windows on trains. We passed all that you would expect to on a Swiss mountain ride: valleys, through mountain tunnels, over chasms, hillside pastures where cows wearing their chiming bells stood in the shade, farms, tiny mountain villages. The afternoon was superb, and when I returned to Felix’s, he was almost ready with a barbeque. “Manny and Theo are coming over soon,” he told me in the kitchen as he slaved over a stovetop pan on top of which lay strips of marinated meat.

Out back in the garden of the apartment building, a lovely green area with a barbeque area complete with table and wood-burning oven, a fire was blazing. Once the guys arrived, Theo with his scalloped potatoes, Felix started passing food from his balcony to Manny and I, who took it over to the table. For the next 2 hours, we feasted on potatoes, fresh vegetables, and the meat: horsemeat and lamb. I wasn’t sure I could do horsemeat (gee, my sister owns one), but it was quite good actually. Felix is a wonderful cook and we ate and drank (yes, Manny brought more wine over). Theo told a few more of the jokes he’d told weeks ago, but after a couple glasses of wine, they’re still funny. Kathrin joined us after her workout at the gym, and we stayed put in the little dark garden until close to 11pm. Felix had to work the next day, so after saying goodnight, I walked back to Manny and Kathrin’s flat to check email on their laptop (I’d left mine behind in Hannover and Felix’s was in the shop). We chatted a bit and Manny even came down with me on the elevator to make sure I got started back to Felix’s okay.

I had never really spent time in a French city (other than Paris, and even only the odd day here and there), so when I met a couple through couchsurfing and got an invite to stay with them, I accepted. Couchsurfing, if you don’t know, is an international online organization whereby you “surf” for a couch to sleep on at someone’s house. Hosts do this because they are interested in building international friendships and like to meet foreigners. Travelers get involved because they want a free place to sleep for a night. I’d heard about couchsurfing through Alexis, the French Canadian guy I’d met in Bulgaria, so after joining, wrote to a couple in the French city of Lyon.

So, the morning after the barbeque, I found myself back on the very same train that I’d taken the day before towards Lausanne. Only I continued on to Geneva and then Lyon. Ingolf and Kathryn (the couple) had written that they wouldn’t be available until about 7pm, so I killed time by walking about Lyon, going as far as the river Rhone. At about 6:30, I wandered back to the address I’d been given, and to my surprise, the ground floor door (entrance to the apartment building) was open, so I entered, climbed the stairs, and just in case they were home, knocked on the door. To my surprise, two Chinese girls opened the door and peeked out. When they saw me, they opened the door wider and said, “You are couchsurfer?” in a cute Chinese accent. Turns out they were couchsurfers, too. As they beckoned me in and brought me into the kitchen the kitchen for a glass of much-needed water, I learned that they’d spent the previous night with Ingolf and Kathryn but had a problem with traveling onwards; hence, they were staying another night. They were from Hong Kong, both in their late twenties but looking much younger, and with broken English and lots of smiles and giggles they were utterly charming.

They were thrilled to learn that I’d traveled in Switzerland—their next stop—and questioned me about various cities, hostels, prices. Unfortunately, I could only tell them about Felix, Manny and Theo and eating horsemeat and dipping bread in schnapps, so their enthusiasm dwindled.

Ingolf came home after awhile. He and Kathryn are actually Germans living for some years in France. They seemed to be in their late twenties and were avid bikers. Now, in the kitchen, he said, “Well last night the girls made Chinese food for us, so I guess it’s our turn.” It’s likely that he wondered what tasty dish an American could possibly concoct, so we decided on Spaghetti. Wandering down to the corner store, he and I chipped in to buy some big fat tomatoes, some zucchini, onion and—just in case we’d need it—a jar of sauce. Back at the house, we men took charge of the kitchen while the Chinese girls busied themselves in their guestroom on the internet desperately seeking the next night’s accommodations and train information. Ingolf started pasta boiling while I diced up the onions and garlic. We threw everything into a pot to simmer and chatted until Kathryn came home—exhausted—from work. It was then that I was really impressed with the whole concept of being a Couchsurfing host. Imagine coming home sweaty and tired at the end of a long day of work and meeting people that you didn’t know who would spend the night in your home. Wow!
We all had a super dinner. Kathryn, as she explained, had just started working for a company that sold tired on the Internet. They had needed someone who spoke not only fluent German but French as well. Which she did, of course. “It’s long hard hours,” she explained, “A start-up company, but by September I hope to negotiate a better contract.” After dinner, the Chinese girls and I did the dishes. We all chatted a bit but then the girls retired to the guestroom while Kathryn made up the couch in the living room for me. It was completely comfortable and I got a good night’s rest. The next morning, Ingolf and I had a small breakfast of bread and cheese (well, France, right?) and I departed. I had half a day to spend in Lyon before my train departed for Germany, so I took the time to explore the city center.

I returned via city bus to the center, the river Rhone. A few blocks further is the river Saone, both pretty with plenty of bridges crossing. Just on the other side of the Saone, a hill (and the streets) ascend for a few hundred meters. It’s utterly charming, all these twisty streets at different levels. I wound up at St. Jeans (St. John’s) cathedral, one of the best cathedrals I’d seen in a while. Set atop a rather mammoth hill, surrounded by trees, this is the seat of the archbishop of France and was built from 1180 AD to 1480 in the Romanesque and Gothic style. Good old English King Henry IV was married here. At any rate, I had a nice wander through and then took the stairs down to ‘the crypt’, which to me looked like a smaller sanctuary. Anyway, it was nice and cool (the temps were in the 80’s outside) so I sat in one of the pews for awhile gazing down the nave at all the artwork, the stained glass, and gang of Japanese tourists snapping pictures.

I had a treat on the way back to Hannover: a ride on the TVG (France’s version of Japan’s bullet train). This creature on rails goes up to 300 KPH (186mph). I had deliberately chosen a train that would bypass Paris since I didn’t want to get stuck going from one train station to another, and this one was direct from Lyon to Brussels, Belgium, where I would change for a train to Cologne Germany, and on to Hannover. The bullet train was fast, all right. As I sat in my seat, the scenery flashed by out the window. I spent some time in the lounge car sipping a diet cola, mineral water, and eating some licorice and gummy bears—all paid for with my credit card. Why? Because in Lyon I had literally spent my last 7 Euros. My pockets were empty until I’d get back to Hannover, but while in the lounge car, I saw an ice cold coke light and just couldn’t help using the old MasterCard. Since I was going to make one transaction, I thought I might as well go wild and buy 3 items. So there I stood (cheap French train had no seats; you had to stand at one of three ‘bars’) enjoying the melting Gummy Bears while looking out the windows at the fast moving French countryside, part of which was quite nice: we went through a narrow valley with perhaps 200-foot high hills on either side, all forested. But after awhile, we were rolling across farmland, pretty flat and, well, not much different than Iowa.

I changed trains in Belgium, happy to be in a first class compartment on a German train again because the attendant came around with little fancy chocolates or a little bag of mixed nuts—and I was slightly hungry. The ride, other than the snack, was uneventful. I read most of the way, more surgery and medical goings-on in the Final Diagnosis. I had to change trains in Cologne Germany, where I enjoyed twenty heady minutes in one of the grandest cathedrals in Europe. The place gives me the creeps when I look at it from the outside; it’s so darkly gothic in comparison to other cathedrals. Looks like something that I should have seen in Transylvania. I half expected vampires to fly out of the roof. Afterwards, I caught the next train to Hannover. Thus ended my travels in Europe. I would be spending the following weeks in Hannover. It had been a good long trip. 