- Bergen highlights: hilly cobblestone streets, and the Fløibanen funicular up to Fløyen’s hiking trails
- Experience nature’s grandeur and remoteness on a fjord cruise to Flåm
Bergen is
Norway’s second-largest city, but its roughly 250,000 people inhabit a much
more natural landscape than Oslo’s 1.5 million. Bergen was an important trading post in the Hanseatic league,
and was the first capital of Norway.
The city lies almost directly west across the country from Oslo, on the
dramatically craggy coast. Even in
February it was bustling with tourists and its large student population.
To be
honest, I woke up often on the overnight train, as it made a lot of stops,
ceasing its soothing motion and white noise. But I slept reasonably well. The conductor made an announcement thirty minutes before
arrival, so I got dressed and sorted out my map. Since we pulled in at 7am, it was still dark, but you could
anticipate dawn a bit (more so than in Reykjavik).
It’s
impossible to get lost in Bergen; the hills reveal the distinctive harbor
layout, and church steeple-beacons poke into the sky. I was pleasantly surprised to come to a steep cobblestone
neighborhood of three-story buildings.
My CouchSurfing host, Vaida, and her roommate (I could never tell if it
was “Deb” or “Dev,” so I mumbled it) were awake and very friendly—made coffee,
offered me cake—and chatted before leaving for work. Vaida suggested taking the funicular up the mountain to
hike. The girls shared a standard
two-bedroom apartment with cute Scandinavian kitchen cupboards camouflaging the
appliances. The view out their
window was like Paris, hills of warmly lit gabled roofs.
About 9 am,
the town was waking up, lots of college-age people headed purposely toward the
city center. I decided to start
with the Nordnes peninsula that juts out into the bay/fjord. Most buildings were separate
structures, and akimbo alleys and walks and stairways made paths between
them. There were lots of pinks and
greens and brightly colored shutters, old cracked wooden window frames with a
hundred coats of paint, and quaint little objects on the sills. I went out to the end, walking on
Nøstegaten and Haugeveien streets, then back winding from Strandgaten down
super steep side streets and alleys.
 |
| Steep cobblestone streets of Bergen. |
I next found
the funicular ticket booth. You
can walk, winding up switchback streets, but the ticket lady pointed out that
the sidewalks were quite icy. And
the train was fun. The incline was
a dramatic 45 degrees; we made stops at multiple levels of outlying
neighborhoods. The pinnacle
rewards you with spectacular views of the city below, mountains, and
surrounding water.
 |
| Gazing down the tracks at Bergen harbor. |
A lovely
restored old restaurant is the only building atop Floyen; miles of forested
mountain trails beckon beyond. My
hike here was my favorite part of the trip. The mountains were like a fairy tale. There were some families skiing, and
groups of old men hiking together.
But mostly I was alone, in quiet snow-laden woods. The trail was about six feet wide, and
went over little hills and jogs, with a steep push up at the end. A groomer evidently passes so
cross-country skiers have a firm, gliding surface, despite sharing with
hikers. I hiked about 10 miles,
but it wasn’t not tiring. It was
just so fresh, crisp, and clean, and the bright white clouds and snow were
floor and ceiling and ahhh…winter!
After that I
saw Bryggen, “the wharf,” wooden buildings dating as far back as the early
1700s, the harbor, and what was open of the castle. The castle was a bit of a bust—only “Håkon’s Hall” was open,
a reconstructed (the thick stone walls are original) big old room with tables,
and more chambers with more tables.
I was the only museum patron, so I peeked behind curtains and sneaked up
stairs, but there was nothing else to see. The fortress area is a nice spot for a picnic, though.
Back at
Vaida’s I unthawed with hot shower (heated shower floors are a popular comfort
in Norway). While Vaida looked
online for a bar with live music that night, we talked about our families and
travels, and her childhood in Lithuania.
After feeding me a plate of homemade turkey-bolognese pasta we braved
the chill night to hit up a tropical dive bar, full of students. For about $10 each, I got us a glass of
box wine and a “cider” that tasted like a green apple Jolly Rancher (there’s
that alcohol import tax at work again).
A reggae band of acoustic guitar, bongos, and bass played somewhat
apologetically, but the atmosphere was festive and you’d never know how cold it
had dropped outside.
The next
morning I thanked Vaida for everything and headed to the train station for the
first leg of my Nutshell tour. The
train passed by lovely snowy mountains and a river. The transfer at Voss to bus was easy and the ride very
pretty. We stopped every so often
to pick up fit, sparkle-eyed seniors going the next town over. About eight people were on the Nutshell
tour and got on the ferry at Gudvangen.
I changed
into all my warm clothes and went to the top and front of the boat. The mountains reached up sooooo
steep—3,000 feet, seemingly sheer up from the water. We effortlessly broke through about 3” thick ice formed on a
section of fjord protected from the wind.
There were a few little flashes of fins—porpoises, just black triangles
in the dark water.
We passed by
a few very small towns on the water’s edge, clusters of brightly painted houses
dwarfed by the surrounding mountains.
The entire ride, the huge craggy mountains reached up and around. We wound our way through, and I stayed
outside for all but five minutes to warm up in the middle.
 |
| Outpost on the fjord. |
When we
arrived, Flåm was hibernating.
It’s very much a tourist town (and small, about 450 residents, but
thousands of visitors a day in summer, so I read). I had arranged with Sigurd, the proprietor of the guesthouse
room I rented, to pick me up from the grocery store. I got some pasta and treats at the store, and Sigurd met me
right on time. He looked to be in
his late 60s, was very nice, and spoke perfect English. He was relieved to hear I’m from
Michigan and understand cold. But
it’s only just below freezing, not bad at all. There are three residential sections (it’s seems absurd to
call them “suburbs”) near Flåm, about a mile away. Sigurd and his wife life in one half of their guesthouse,
and I had a separate area with a large wood-paneled pastel bedroom, kitchen,
bathroom, and access to the yard.
It put me at ease to be near other houses and see a preschool with kids
giggling and sledding, to have some humanity near in these quiet, remote
mountains.
Sigurd
recommended sticking to the roads, as hiking trails are icy and impassible in
winter. The road is lovely,
though, snaking along a river with an occasional car. A few groupings of houses and an old church
(built in 1667) were all very cozy.
I kept going, up more and more, and got to fantastic overlooks of
waterfalls, giant sheets of icicles on cliffs, and fragrant stands of pines.
I headed
back into Flåm for a pint of tasty porter at Ægir brewpub. No one else was there, but you could
tell it would be hopping in summer.
At not quite 6pm, the waitress said they were closing, but I could let
myself out(!). There were still
some guys in the brewery, and though my (faux?) furry-hide covered bench was
comfy I was a bit lonely, so I chugged the last third of my half-litre and
started home. It was pleasant and contemplative on my own, but it’s the very
still of winter and the rest of the world may as well have disappeared.
The next
morning I picked up the Nutshell itinerary, taking the Flåmsbana
up one of the world’s most dramatic railways. Several middle-aged couples showed up in snow gear with
skis, and dogs. They smiled and
murmured and seemed so pleased with a few falling flakes and the quiet day in
the woods ahead. As the train went
past, Sigurd waved out his window.
All nine stops were tiny outposts, some even without houses. We stopped by a blue half-frozen
waterfall, and a little girl and I got out on the platform for a minute. As we headed up steeper, insane views of
the valley cut below. Myrdal was a
small town, high up in the mountains, totally blanketed. In fifteen minutes, the Oslo train
came, fairly full, mostly skiers.
We were
HIGH—about 3500 ft., above the timberline, and stopped only at ski resorts in
the middle of nowhere. I drank in
the snowy wilderness from the comfort of my window seat. Tall skinny pines (spruces?) dusted as
with sugar, frozen lakes, dark winding rivers. It wasn’t until the last hour the stops were actually
sizeable towns. The light faded
and there were some glowing orange shafts of light breaking thorough distant
clouds. I had yogurt and trail
mix, but close to Oslo I sprang for a train snack. It looked sort of like a Pop-Tart but turned out to be
flatbread with butter, sugar, and cinnamon, quite tasty.
Back in
Oslo, Katie made up for my previous days’ solitude: we had dinner at a friend’s
apartment, followed by drinks with some opera divas. We went to Christiania, an upscale bar located in the
central train station with gorgeous architecture, high antique-painted
ceilings, but with kind of cheesy Cheers-like
dark wood stools and lantern lights.
I got a pear cider that was again like a jolly rancher, and later a good
dry reddish Norwegian beer, of which the bar tender approved and said had “a
lot of taste.” I was getting
sleepy so we headed home instead of hopping to the Underwater Pub, where if you sing an opera song, you drink free
(and if you’d rather listen, opera students perform Tuesday and Thursday
nights).
The next day
I enjoyed an unhurried morning, awed yet again by the quiet of winter, even in
the big city. The sun sparkled on
the snow, and those of us about walked and talked peacefully, as though fitting
our Nordic stride to the grooves of a ski path. Neither expensive cruises nor reindeer delicacies could have
wrought the pleasure and sense of welcome shared by my hosts.
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