En Route

Oh boy, I guess this is happening.  The trip as far as LA is ok; not awash in tears and -- complacent?  What's between content and resigned?  No, that's too dour.  Let's make up a word, like...consigned -- which, yes, is a word, but we're going to imagine it means contentment as a result of acceptance of something difficult.

Well now!  Out of the recesses of psyche and into the sunshine. :)  wen I get off the next plane it will be springtime.  Remember that bright-green young grass, and purple and red buds, flowers to challenge the color spectrum?  And lambs all over the place, fuzzy and kittenish.  Ok, sit with those images before more lame metaphors spill out.

Get Ready to Get Ready

The process of packing has always been extremely straightforward for me, one of the few things my brain accomplishes to my satisfaction with almost no conscious effort.  Unfortunately, that makes for boring conversation when people ask with wonder, "How in the world do you pack for five months away?" and I honestly respond, "Put some clothes and books in a bag."  I actually attach a silly amount of sentiment to certain shirts, scarves, and homey objects; embracing this fact and accepting that the comfort of taking a favorite article means I will appear more or less in uniform in all my pictures over a ten-year period helps limit the overall amount of stuff.  And my parents trained me to only ever take carry-on luggage, so even one medium bag besides my backpack leaves room for, to my mind, an embarrassing overabundance of possessions.  It also helps that I'm perfectly happy with one pair of shoes.  (*Caveat: For this trip, I also have a pair of work shoes.)

Of slight issue is my penchant for reading.  I could probably watch a movie or two on the flight, but that takes care of four of the 36 => infinity hours it will take me to get to the Ice.  I love actual print on paper, which gets weighty, and I usually buy books to keep and reread, so they're not likely to get ditched after consumption.  This time I'll compromise somewhat, with two books and a disposable Sunday Times.

Speaking of flying, this year I was one of a "lucky few" ticketed directly from LA to Auckland.  This would be more exciting if I went from New York to LA, as you think would be possible with the give-or-take 8,000 daily flights between those cities; but no, I'll get to jaunt over to San Francisco to tempt the God of Airport Delays just for fun.  The rundown is: New York to San Francisco; San Francisco to LA; LA to Auckland; Auckland to Christchurch.  Technically, it's a two-day journey, since you cross the International Date Line, a.k.a. time travel.  Let's assume everything goes smoothly and I sleep on every plane to emerge bright-eyed in New Zealand for a few days before going to the cold place (the last leg to Antarctica is about five hours on a military plane with an enormous sack lunch -- like two of everything).

Mentally, to get ready, I'm focusing on reasons I enjoyed it so much last year.  Interesting people, beautiful landscape, oddly gratifying work, and just a new slice of life...all good things to shuffle with doubts and worries.  Monday morning departure looms like fog: though it's familiar ground, I step carefully.

...Continuing...

Welcome to the horrible layout of Blogger, where random leading, uncontrolled text wrapping, and school-assignment font subconsciously warp the mind's processing of content.  Excuse me, former editor/typesetter feeling grumbly here.

So!  Back to the Ice.  I have rather complicated feelings about returning: it's a place I really like with people and work I like, and it fulfills my desire to travel and experience different ways of living; however, I'm also embarking on a stage of life where Matt and I shift from spouses to friends.  Here's a naked plea for lots of email and mail, to keep in touch with the world that still has night and stars.  :)

Regular postage works because it's technically a US address:

Claire Veligdan
McMurdo Station, ASC
PSC 769 Box 700
APO AP 96599-1035

Here's hoping for a good season, and a trip down that doesn't include lying on a cot at LAX in the wee smalls.  Wherever you are, enjoy the lovely autumn.

Iceland and Norway Part I: Reykjavik – CouchSurfing with Gentle Vikings

• You should probably go to the famous Blue Lagoon, but also check out the many municipal geothermal pools.

• Walk the Sæbraut on your way to Sægreifinn for seafood.

After almost losing my bag by getting off the FlyBus at the wrong stop, the nice bus station lady pointed out the way to Bea and Stephan's place.  It was not quite 8am, pitch black, and not a soul about.  There might have been a cat.  February in Iceland is sleepy and gray, but I find subtlety in shadowy blues just as beautiful as technicolor sundrenched gardens.  Houses are mostly white, about two to three stories, many with small yards, and placed/spaced uniquely so that a quality of organic sprouting up comes through.  My hosts greeted me very kindly if sleepily and offered breakfast, but the second I saw the bunk beds, I knew a nap was in order.  We all went to sleep again until midmorning.

For my first CouchSurfing experience, I thought Iceland seemed pretty safe.  A small, peaceful, prosperous country with the tang of adventurous forbears, I spent a while reading profiles and zeroed in on a girl about my age.  Her apartment was centrally located, she was a teacher, and had several positive reviews full of genuine appreciation and liking.  She shared the apartment with a German guy, whom many reviewers commented was equally as nice. 

I realized after the fact that it's easiest to visit the Blue Lagoon springs going to or from the airport, as they're a bit outside the city.  If you're interested in going, plan a visit in accordance with your flight.  Also note the cheapest admission fee is about $50.

Bea gave me a key to the front door and a pass for the city pools, several of which are open outdoor thanks to geothermal heat.  First, I decided to strike out for the harbor and flea market.  It was gray and sprinkling rain, but actually pretty warm, about 40°F (4°C).  I wandered past the behemoth Hallgrímskirkja church (which is austere and monolithic), and down a main street to a great little café, where for a not-alarming amount of money (about $8) I enjoyed a cappuccino and real, crispy, buttery croissant.  Then, down another main road to see—snow-covered mountains!  Whoa!  The northeast view from the water is gorgeous, with a gentle curve and that blue-blue glacier-looking water (even though this is the ocean).  I took the Sæbraut walking path round to the harbor.  The recreational trail stretches along the coast, affording views of kayakers and whale-watching boats set against distant rock outcroppings and the mountain-and-sea horizon.

The Kolaportið flea really was a flea (sorry, Brooklyn Flea, but $10 kimchi tacos and $100 antique wooden apple crates are not my idea of a flea), with new and re-sale clothes at cheap prices (lots of knit, lots of wool, and lots of cheap imported stuff), plus a small food section with mostly fish and bread.  There were some promising postcards and sweaters, but I didn’t bite.  I continued to the famed lobster soup place, Sægreifinn.  It's small, with two long, narrow wooden tables and short stools.  My tummy grumbled for my first real meal in a long time.  A plate with warm homemade bread and generous pat of butter were so good, and the soup very tasty.  Alone it's not a hearty meal, but the lobster soup was perfect—tender, large chunks in a salty, creamy broth.  When some seats cleared, a nice middle-aged lady across from me struck up conversation.  She was Swiss and had traveled all over, and planned to try the grilled fish kabobs as well.

Cute condiments

Then I wandered the city over: Skólavörðustígur and the main shopping streets, with boutiques and touristy stuff, and funny little bars, colorful facades and more stucco than the residential areas, which are primarily corrugated tin/steel.  (Stephen pointed out corrugated steel is lightweight and strong—good since all building materials have to be imported.  The trees that centuries ago forested the country were almost all gone by the 1800s, from use as fuel, building material, and soil erosion.)

I wandered by Tjörnin, "the pond," with a crowd of geese and swans being fed.  Up and down the streets, in grocery stores to see what the selection was like, by nice bookstores, wool outfitters.  I had my swimsuit and towel, and hiked to the eastern Laugardalslaug, reportedly the best pool complex.  A large locker room (take your shoes off before going in), was equipped with lockers with keys on rubber bands, to wear around the ankle, for free.  Shower with soap naked, everybody's pretty nonchalant about it, and choose between the indoor and outdoor pools.  The indoor was lanes and a diving pool.  The outdoor was pretty warm—but not hot as a hot tub.  Most people found a jet where the hot water was channeled in and parked there.  I did too.  It felt soooo good to take a hot shower, and you don't have to feel bad because there's plenty of space and the water's naturally hot.  Bea said most people go to the pool several times a week, often during lunch, to socialize and hang out in the water.  Every neighborhood has a pool, and all ages are there.

It was about two miles from the pool to central downtown, and while not desolate, the walking paths by the highway were a bit forlorn.  Probably the wet, dead grass and basalt-y ice didn't help.  Happily, Bea greeted my return with tea and a lap blanket.  Bea likes experimenting in the kitchen, and made a good mishmash for dinner of veggies and seafood with cumin over rice.  My contribution was a package of brownie mix I brought from home, which was baked and entirely consumed by the three of us after dinner.  We talked travel and politics, Stephen regaling us with his favorite jokes from The Daily Show.  It was incredibly homey, the conversation flowed, and I was so happy to not be alone in a hostel.

The next morning, Sunday, there was quite a song of church bells, so I got up and wandered over to hear the boys' choir and organ.  I went in the Hallgrímskirkja in the middle of the sermon in nice Icelandic tones.  The sun was coming out from the clouds and rising past the windows behind the altar.  The church is very plain, modern in design, with almost no decoration, art, or color.  Discreetly cushioned pews were backed with empty hymnal holders.  After about twenty minutes I snuck out to the bell tower.  Its height and the church’s location on the highest hill provide great views overlooking the city, revealing colorful roofs and clusters of brightly painted houses.

Rainbow cityscape

It was time for a hot dog.  Back down to the harbor, the streets were fairly quiet, but it is Sunday morning.  The "best" stand, Bæjarins beztu, is always popular—about twenty people came in the time I ate my very good dog on toasted bun with onions, ketchup, honey mustard, and (according to Bea) remoulade, which was like mayo-relish.  I thought about eating a second, but instead walked up a road next to a very mossy, woodsy, cemetery.  It was full, with little sections fenced in and many areas without paths.  There was still some old soft snow in the shade.  I also reverenced the past by visiting The Culture House museum, viewing old manuscripts (some of the oldest copies of Icelandic sagas) and brushed up on Icelandic literature.  There was a neat room with recreated tools and vellum and skins and the story of book binding, from scraping hides to making ink. 

 The bezt hot dog in town.

That night Bea and I chatted about traveling, and child rearing in Iceland.  Apparently, fathers take about an equal part in childcare, and in general life is more about being with family and enjoying time together than about career.  Babies until about two years old are put outside to sleep in enclosed strollers, with plenty of wool clothes.  Bea's uncle did this in Germany, and the neighbors called the police.  She says it's traditional, and they sleep very well.

Bea offered me slippers and tea, and I packed for the next leg of my trip (off to Norway).  She and Stephen were so nice, educated, fun, and had a talent for laidback domesticity.  They’re not naïve about the world, but are positive and enjoy meeting people from all over just for the sake of it.  When I travel, I usually I focus on the unique buildings, landscapes, and foods, but the people who live and perpetuate the culture of the place are every bit as fascinating and the relationship we form just as memorable.

Also read:
Intro: Nine Days in Iceland and Norway - The Plan

Part II:  La vie bohème in Oslo

Iceland and Norway Part II: La vie bohème in Oslo

• Two cultural gems on the outskirts of the city: Viking Ship Museum, is just across the street from the Norsk Folk Museum.

• See the opera house and perhaps an opera, and try to catch the water taxi.

At 4:30am I popped out of bed.  Dressed and bags zipped in five minutes, Stephen helped me with the stubborn handle that came right off the front door.  I jogged down a hill and over to the bus station.  Even with a ticket, the FlyBus is first-come-first-serve, so I wanted to secure a seat.  At the airport, I made a beeline for the coffee stand. A warm, crispy, buttery croissant with ham and cheese was only about $4 (come on, not bad for an airport), and was perfect, along with my grocery store yogurt.  In the terminal, I found some decent duty-free wine for my friends Katie and David, who’d host me in Oslo.  I splurged an extra $3 for D.O.C. Chianti instead of the cheapest screw-top bottle.  (Katie had mentioned the high import tax on alcohol was putting a crimp in their imbibing.) 

All this time and about two hours into the flight it was still pitch black.  A tinge of red sunrise crept up the opposite side of the plane.  When we landed it was snowing, everything in sight was white and gray pines.  I sucked up the $30 for Flytoget, the fast train, only twenty minutes to Oslo Central Station. 

Katie and David’s apartment was included as part of his gig at the opera: all Ikea furniture, modern, tasteful, spacious rooms, even a picture window and little balcony with a view of the hills outside town.  Katie gave me a tour of the city center and we had coffee and carrot cake to warm up (yes, I wore layers, but I hate wearing a hat). 

I was eager to see the local grocery stores.  Katie warned me (this fact was later confirmed by actual Norwegians) that the cheap grocery store meat is kind of bad (looking, smelling, tasting).  Visit a butcher for good meat, if you must; but really this is the land of fish, and individual portions of frozen salmon and cod are widely available and favorably priced.  I got some Snøfrisk goat cheese, weird rose-flavored hard cider, and we used the automatic slicer on a loaf of grainy bread. 

We were headed to the Folkemuseum, and planned to ride a tall ship ferry that cruises downtown over to the museum district, in Bygdøy.  At the Opera house, one of the boat’s stops, 10 minutes ahead of schedule, we watched as the boat slowly motored up, did a slow U-turn and never came to the pier!  So we took the bus instead. 

The Folkemuseum includes an exhibit building with antique furniture, clothes, jewelry, and other artifacts, and large grounds with a semi-reconstructed town of old buildings.  There was a tavern, a bank, a pharmacy, and a townhouse with period rooms from 1890, 1960, and 1970, to highlight the glories of Scandinavian design.  Further afield lay a grouping of little, low log farmhouses and barns.  In summer there are craft demonstrations and historical re-enactors, but we enjoyed having it almost entirely to ourselves, the country-like land blanketed with snow.

The Vikingskiphuset (Viking ship museum) is just across the street.  The building’s sleek modern design and whitespace is in fascinating juxtaposition to its contents.  I was stunned by the age and carving of the wood.  Found in the late 1800s, two large ships, three canoe-sized boats, a carriage, carved staves, scraps of tapestry, and decorative metal buried with the ships as part of a funeral ceremony were built about 800-850 AD.  The oak boards are anciently black, preserved with pine pitch. 

The museum's modern design offsets the ancient ships.

We took the bus back downtown to the famous Frogner park, home to the Vigeland Sculpture Arrangement and museum.  The park contains more than 200 bronze and granite sculptures.  The park is in an upper-class neighborhood with some large individual homes, and high-end stores, a butcher, and gorgeous cafes.  It was early dusk and we walked through the trails past families and strollers and cross-country skiers.  The statues are of people in all stages of life—average, plain-faced, naked people expressing emotions and actions.  The sun faded yellow and pink as we walked over the grand bridge to the central fountain.

Pinky dusk at Frogner park.

Delicious inexpensive Indian food abounds near the central train station.  We banished the cold outdoors with tikka masala and pakora, drank wine, chatted and grew sleepy.  But Katie prevailed upon me to go to Oslo’s newest super-cool destination: the Ice Bar.  It is, we read, the hip place to be.  $25 gets you a 45-minute “session,” which must be reserved ahead of arrival (or at least an hour earlier from your apartment).  The gel-haired attendants put a big furry cloak on you and you get a drink ticket for a very good fruity mixed drink served in a big cube of ice with a hole drilled in.  It’s Tuesday night, 10pm…and the place is empty.  They still carefully time our admission and politely dismiss us after 45 minutes.  But there are intricate ice sculptures, ice benches, ice tables: it’s a dimly-lit ice palace of a bar.  I kept touching the wall and melting it a little.  

Artwork in ice.

The next day, we started to the castle and the fortress.  I knew the castle would be closed, but it was still neat to see the old, thick walls of stone.  Battlements, cannons, and goose-stepping soldiers commanded views over the harbor.

Then, we failed again to take a ferry.  The docks were industrial and it was hard to imagine a little tourist boat motoring between the cruise ship and the fish loading equipment.  Instead, we visited the National Gallery, which is the perfect size museum—a bit of everything European from Greek busts to modernism, with extra emphasis on Norwegian painters.  There were some utterly beautiful landscapes, a Van Gough portrait, “The Scream,” and lots of snowy fjords.  We spent a pleasant hour seeing it all.

We were pretty chilled being out all day, but in Grünerløkka, creamy cauliflower soup with bacon and garlicky potato wedges with aioli were the perfect remedy.  Grünerløkka’s success as a bohemian neighborhood with character—a square flanked by great looking restaurants, funky independent shops, filled with students—is fending off gentrification.  We admired scarves and tapas and the last of the fading light.

Then, the major event, the reason why any of us were there: opera!  Katie lent me a gorgeous cashmere sweater and boots to go with my dress, and lingered over her make-up until it really was time to go.  We rushed to the opera house, a jewel-box of diamond light at night, the glass shimmered like the water beside it.  Our tardiness was a boon—we were led to box seats so as not to disturb the row of our ticketed seats.  I loved being close to the stage, you could see singers’ expressions and into the orchestra pit (the orchestra sounded fantastic).  The show was a modern staging of La bohème and featured some odd concepts.  We went up to David’s dressing room at intermission and caught glimpses of people in costume but, of course, out of character.  Mimi, no longer ill, chatting on her cell phone; manly Schaunard carefully reapplies his mascara and rouge.  After the show, Katie and I hurried home so I could change and get to my overnight train from Oslo to Bergen.

Also read:
Part I: Reykjavik - CouchSurfing with Gentle Vikings

Part III: Mountains and Fjords and Snow - To Bergen and Back

Iceland and Norway Part III: Mountains and Fjords and Snow, To Bergen and Back

• 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. 

Also read:
Intro: Nine Days in Iceland and Norway - The Plan
Part I: Reykjavik - CouchSurfing with Gentle Vikings

Part II: La vie bohème in Oslo

Lovely and Cheap Nine Days in Iceland and Norway – The Plan

The winter of 2012 was a difficult time: I was itching to leave my no longer satisfying job, looking forward to the adventure of culinary school to come but still months away. Then the opportunity to make a fairly frugal trip to one of the world's priciest places was gifted to me. Great friends, an opera-singing couple, were headed to Oslo. Midwinter. Katie, probably joking, let it be known that visitors were most welcome throughout January and February. 

I love winter, snow, and northern light and shadow.  I've long seen ads for Iceland Air's free stopovers, and thought any foreign airline would be a comfortable ride—and I'd get to see Iceland!  Staying with friends in Oslo would make the trip fairly affordable.  Then it dawned on me: I could stay with friends the entire trip.

I planned nine days in Iceland and Norway for $1,000.  That's everything—airfare, transportation across Norway, food, drinks, museums—with the hospitality and generosity of friends old and new.  I planned my first CouchSurfing experience, getting in touch with hosts to stay two nights in Reykjavik and one night in Bergen.

Reykjavik

Couch surfing has a sort of dilettante or hippie-stoner undertone: friends passing through your city on an aimless road trip, friends of friends needing a place to crash when a relationship goes awry, acquaintances of acquaintances job searching…  And similarly, there's an American aversion to hostels, pensions, and the sort of minimum-service ways of bedding down that the rest of world gets along with just fine.  Most people assume that to use CouchSurfing.org, you have to likewise offer up your own home to anyone that wants to come; not so.  The free spirits who designed the site had the main goal of connecting people who want a cultural exchange, to meet friends curious about the world.  True, some people treat it as just a free place to stay, or a dating site, and it's pretty easy to tell who they are.  But for the rest of us, this is an invaluable way to meet interesting welcoming people. 

In addition to couch surfing, I timed my travels so that one night would be spent on an overnight train, maximizing dollars and time (and fulfilling a romantic Orient Express-related notion).  I wanted to see the Norwegian countryside, and of course its famous fjords.  The Norway in a Nutshell site is a bit confusing, but with perseverance you can order ahead tickets for pretty much any itinerary.  They have done a lot of the work for you as far as determining picturesque destinations and combining various modes of transportation.  The key is to arrange your own lodgings and check out maps so you know where to make connections.  

Mountains to the north of Bergen.

I purchased a bargain "minipris" overnight train ticket from Oslo to Bergen in a sleeper cabin.  Such tickets are available in limited numbers up to one day before departure. 

Then, I used the Norway in a Nutshell itinerary from Bergen to Oslo:

- train from Bergen to Voss

- bus from Voss to Gudvangen

- ferry fjord cruise from Gudvangen to Flåm

- train from Flåm to Myrdal

- train from Myrdal to Bergen

I arranged an overnight stay in Flåm at a guesthouse open year-round (though they were surprised to hear from me in February).  I simply continued on my journey a day and a half later, able to take the train from Flåm to Myrdal any time I liked on the day I scheduled my ticket.  Norway in a Nutshell tickets may list specific times but do not always have specific seat reservations; depending on the season, you may not fit on the bus and will have to wait for the next available spot.  This was not an issue in winter.

With a bit of luck and creativity, I'd see a dollop of Iceland and a chunk of Norway without much monetary suffering and gain insider perspective from local residents.

Also read:
Part I: Reykjavik - CouchSurfing with Gentle Vikings

Part II: La vie bohème in Oslo

Part III: Mountains and Fjords and Snow, To Bergen and Back