Pay No Attention

If you have to ask, you can't fjord it

Norway is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been, and one of the most hellishly expensive.  I wept every time I opened my wallet, particularly in Oslo.  However, the fjords made it all worthwhile.  Since I only had a couple of days to see the fjords, I stationed myself in Bergen, and took an all day (and I do mean all day, from the wee hours of the morning) boat tour of the fjords.  Unfortunately, neither my words nor my pictures are going to do justice to the fjords, but you absolutely must see them before you die.  In case anyone doesn't know what a fjord is (actually, I didn't know how they were created until I went to Norway), here's a handy definition from Wikipedia:

. . . a long, narrow estuary with steep sides, created in a glacially carved valley that is filled by rising sea water levels. The seeds of a fjord are laid when a glacier cuts a U-shaped valley through abrasion of the surrounding bedrock by the sediment it carries. Many such valleys were formed during recent ice age when the sea was at a much lower level than it is today. At the end of the ice age, the climate warmed up again and glaciers retreated. Sea level rose due to an influx of water from melting ice sheets and glaciers around the world (it rose over 100 m after the last ice age), inundating the vacated valleys with seawater to form fjords.

Yeah, I could've put that in my own words, but why?  Anyway, I sailed through a few of the Norwegian fjords on my boat trip, and they are incredible -- long and narrow and twisting, deep deep blue or green water,  steep cliff or mountain-like formations rearing up on either side, snow capping them, and waterfalls careening down. Wow.  When we set off in the morning it was raining, but that suited me fine. I was armed with a heavy-duty hooded rain jacket, and it meant I had the deck of the boat almost to myself for a couple of hours until the weather cleared.  The fjords were mysterious and imposing in the misty rain, like something out of the Lord of the Rings or a fairy tale.  Don't get me wrong -- they were amazing in the sun too, but I wasn't sorry to see them in a couple of different lights and moods.

Gothenburg

My hotel in Gothenburg turned out to be a very fancy five star hotel -- far and away better, by miles and miles, than any other place I've stayed in Scandinavia.  I'd gotten a really great internet deal on it, and after checking in, I could not understand why the place was so cheap  . . . but then I hung out in Gothenburg for a while, and I understood.

OK, that was not completely fair.  I'm sure it's a wonderful place to live, and I actually had a reasonably pleasant late afternoon the day I arrived. I went on a boat tour of the city's canals, which was pleasant, although the scenery by and large wasn't going to knock anyone's socks off.  However, the next morning was forebodingly dark and gray, and it began to pour shortly after I left the hotel.  The streets seemed deserted, I could find nothing to do, and in very short order my shoes were soaked through, so I grabbed a quick lunch and went back to the hotel.  I had definitely picked the right place to stay in a five-star hotel -- I made use of just about every amenity from the gym to the sauna to the bar.  The rain let up a bit late in the day, so I went for a walk through the parks and along the canals . . . and then was out of ideas.  I went back to the hotel, and had an insanely expensive (but very good) dinner in the hotel's very nice restaurant.  (OK, look, I don't usually cop out and eat in the hotel restaurant, but this one was really very nice, and I was out of dry shoes.  Sue me.)

Varberg

Copenhagen, like the house in the Amityville Horror, was telling me to GET OUT.  So I took the hint and got the hell out of Dodge while I was still in one piece.  The next stop was Varberg, a dear little seaside resort on the southwest Swedish coast with a nice beach and a nifty old fort.  (You may have gathered that I'm a sucker for old castles, churches, forts, etc.)  To top it off, my hotel room's shower did not swamp the bathroom floor and drench the toilet, like just about every other shower I had in Scandinavia.  This was my kind of place.

I dropped off my luggage and hightailed it to the fort.  I went on the obligatory guided tour, which was in Swedish, but they gave you little headphones with the English translation.  Like so many such tapes, it was clear that I wasn't getting the full story.  At each stop, the taped blurb would last a sentence or two ("Here we are in the kitchen.  It is here that the soldier's meals were cooked."), while the tour guide would babble on for 10 or 15 minutes.  The tape lasted a total of ten minutes altogether, while the guided tour took well over an hour.  At least with this tour you had some idea of what you were missing -- at each stop, there was a little costumed pantomime to illustrate whatever incident the tour guide was describing.  So, my tape would say "This is the main gate.  The king and his men entered the fort through this gate."  Meanwhile, the tour guide would babble on for 15 minutes, the crowd laughing its collective butt off, while a soldier carrying a bloody ax ran after someone in a crown, a man in a chef's hat and a chicken under his arm tried to intervene, and a shrieking woman ran away.  I have absolutely no idea what happened at that gate, but I gather that at some point something more exciting happened than the king and his men entering the fort.

The best part of the fort was its museum, which contains the Bog Man. Sometime in the early 1300's, the Bog Man was garroted, drowned, impaled and thrust into a bog by someone who apparently didn't like him much.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bocksten_Man  While this death was no doubt unpleasant for BM, he at least got the advantage of being incredibly well-preserved, in particular his hair (which they believe was originally blond, but which the bog turned a startling red), and his woolen clothing, which, according to the museum, is the only fully preserved set of medieval clothing in Europe.  I eat this kind of thing with a spoon (actually, the Bog Man was the main reason I was in Varberg to begin with), so I was utterly fascinated and really glad that here, at least, there were English translations and friendly English-speaking employees milling around.  At the end there was a touristy little area where you could put on medieval-style clothing and get a picture of yourself and send it on email.  (I didn't have my address book with me and you couldn't print the photos.  Otherwise, I would have proudly presented pretty much everyone I know with pictures of me in faux medieval garb.)

I then got some ice cream (nougat this time), and went for a stroll on the beach.  Lots of the children, some only a sneeze from puberty from the looks of them, were frolicking about in the nude, burning their peachy little skins to a crisp and embedding sand into their wee little genitals.  Small wonder most of them were crying.  Lots of fat, unattractive people were on the beach, proving that not all Swedes are tall, slim and god-like.  (And no, they weren't American.  I didn't hear much English at all in Varberg -- it appears this resort is popular with Swedes rather than foreign tourists.)

I had a lovely run down down the beach, past the fort, past a little residential area, down past another beach and back, ending with a dip in the beach in front of the fort.  Nice.  I realized that it had been a very long time since I had walked in sand in bare feet (I never take beach vacations, as you can tell from looking at me).  Since it was late in the day, the sand was only pleasantly warm, not burning hot, so it was wonderful. 

At my wit's end in Copenhagen

I did not get off to a very good start in Copenhagen.  My train arrived at about 7 pm.  It was only about half a mile to my hotel, so I decided to walk.  At 7:10 pm, someone tossed a half empty cup at me (yes, deliberately) out of their car window, dousing me and my luggage with some sweet beverage.  I arrived at my hotel (Ibsen's) at 7:30 to discover they had lost my reservation and were booked solid.  Thank heaven I'd remembered to bring my confirmation sheet--the previously aloof woman behind the desk changed her tune and apologized profusely when I pulled it out.  She spent half an hour trying to track down a room for me somewhere (finally found one at the Danemark Hotel), and she paid for my cab to get there, since it was way across town. 

On the plus side, the Danemark was closer to the city center than my original hotel, but on the negative side, it was in a much noisier location.  A huge clock chimed every 15 minutes outside my window, and the neighborhood appeared to be ground zero for drunks and boisterous street parties.  In the early mornings, the neighborhood reeked of beer and was littered with empty bottles and the occasional leftover drunk.  I checked into my teeny single, which, like nearly all of my hotels in Scandinavia, had a shower with no enclosure, seemingly designed to flood the entire bathroom floor every time you use it.  (This seems to be a common feature in Scandinavian hotels -- why?)  Then I wandered out to get dinner.

I went to an Italian restaurant that looked appealing, and was seated in a small walled patio in back.  I got my appetizer and a glass of wine after a reasonable interval, but more than an hour after they'd cleared my appetizer plate, my entree was still a no-show (and I hadn't managed to flag anyone to refill my wine glass). Four extraordinarily loud and fabulously gay men at the table next to me provided me with ample second-hand smoke, but a girl can't live on that. I finally managed to flag down a waiter and ask where my entree was; it turns out the cook had not begun to cook it.  I told him to forget it, and said I was too exhausted to wait (one of the gay guys -- who spoke English, as everyone does -- overheard me and said "but you look FABULOUS"). I paid and left, tired and still hungry.   It was past 10 pm at this point.  On the way back to the hotel, a wino (a beero, really) hurled a bottle at me.  To be fair, he appeared to be aiming at one of his comrades and not at me, and he missed, but he came far too close to beaning me for my taste.  And back I went to my stuffy little room and the incessantly chiming clock tower.  Now why, oh why, does a clock need to chime every 15 minutes? 

The morning didn't start off much better.  First of all, the shower gave out only a tiny trickle of cold water.  I decided to screw the shower for the time being and get some breakfast first.  I reported the shower problem -- it turned out the entire hotel had a plumbing problem that morning -- and went down to the breakfast buffet at 8:45.  It was mobbed and people were waiting in line for tables.  At last I was able to snag a tiny table for two, only to have a couple come over and suggest I take an empty single chair at an adjoining table.  I rose to oblige, and a guy at the adjoining table objected, "But my wife and I are sitting at this table."  I politely noted that there was a free chair at his table and that table space was in short supply, and I sat down, notwithstanding his objections.  However, ten minutes of trying to get at the buffet table -- people shoving, platters of meat and cheese that looked well-chewed already, a swinging door next to the orange juice that kept swinging into my hip as I waited in line for the buffet -- convinced me to go out for breakfast instead.  To hell with free.  I'd rather have a latte and pastry in peace.

Somewhat refreshed, I went back to the hotel, but the plumbing problem was still not resolved, so  I went out to wander around.  Copenhagen is a very attractive city, but large portions of it do seem to reek of stale beer.  I found the little mermaid statue, which is seriously overrated. It's tiny and insignificant-looking, and of course smothered in tourists taking snapshots.  What a strange symbol for a city. In the original fairy tale, if I'm remembering correctly, the mermaid's tail is cleaved in half to become legs so that she can marry her prince.  For the rest of her days, it feels like she's walking on knives.  She also sacrifices her beautiful voice and her friends and family under the sea. The prince dumps her.  Then she dies and turns into sea foam.  And Copenhagen feels that she is representative of their city?  (Then again, based on my experience so far, maybe she is). 

A few hundred meters away is a much more interesting statue of a woman herding four oxen.  There are fabulous snakes and men spouting water out of their mouths -- it's great.  That's the symbol I'd want for my city, if it were me.

I went back to the hotel in late afternoon, where I was informed that the plumbing problem had been resolved.  However, my shower still emitted only a trickle of cold water.  It turns out that my shower was broken.  They gave me a second room, five floors away, so that I could take a shower.

I went for dinner at a place called Riz Raz, recommended in the Rough Guide.  You get an all-you-can-eat appetizer buffet with every entree, and for Scandinavia, it's a bargain.  But I was immediately reminded of what I hate about buffets (besides herding up in line with a plate).  This horrible woman in line ahead of me actually tasted something directly off the serving spoon, which she then plunked down back into the food.  I gave her my absolute filthiest look (which is pretty filthy, actually), and avoided that bowl, but it was a little like finding a cockroach on your toothbrush.  Sure, you can throw the toothbrush out and get a new one, but how many other cockroaches sat on your toothbrush in the past before you discovered it? 

I have this feeling Copenhagen is going to be one of those cities that everyone loves but me.

Gotta get to Gotland

Drop whatever you are doing immediately, and head to Gotland Island. It was worth the miserable ferry ride to get there. Visby, the main town on the island, is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Chock full of ruined churches dripping with ivy (some with cafes inside) and winding medieval streets, rose-covered cottages, all perched on the side of a hill overlooking a sea so blue it hurts to look at it, and coddled inside intact medieval city walls, all on an island covered with beaches and cycling trails and beautiful countryside and charming villages and ancient churches.

My run in Visby went around the outside of the city walls on a fabulous hilly trail until hitting the ocean, and I ran a couple more miles along the beach before circling around and heading back. Wow. Wow.

I had the best ice cream I’ve ever had in Visby, saffron with honey. Wow. It must be a Swedish thing--I’ve never had anything like it. I ate a double cone, then circled back an hour later and got a second double cone. Wow. At some point while eating that ice cream, I felt that there was no one I’d rather be than me, nowhere I’d rather be than right where I was, and nothing I’d rather be doing than eating that ice cream.

I hate the Gotland Ferry

I HATE THE GOTLAND FERRY!

The ship was enormous. I'd expected a little putt-putt thing, but this was more like an ocean liner.  I had an assigned seat, but someone was sitting in it. There seemed to be a number of empty seats, so I went to the ship's desk and got another seat assigned, but someone was sitting in that one, too.  Assuming that no one paid any attention to the assigned seats, I just plopped down any old where, and began to nap . . . until someone booted me out of "their" seat.  So, I went back to my assigned seat and booted out the occupant.  Unfortunately, it was next to a small child who played incessantly with a beeping electronic toy.  His parents were nowhere in sight.  The damn boat was absolutely overrun with screaming ill-behaved children, and apparently it is the fashion in Sweden, as in America, to simply let children run amok. Finally, I went up on the deck.  It was a chilly, but somewhat more serene.  The next time I melt at the sight of a baby, I must remember this boat ride.  Oh man, do I hate the Gotland ferry.

Drottningholm castle, near Stockholm

The Swedish apparently share at least one trait with the Germans -- they are rigorously punctual.  I missed the ferry to Drottningholm castle by seconds.  I got there just at the ferry was getting ready to leave at 2 pm.  My ticket was in hand, the gangplank was still in place, there was room on the ferry -- but they refused to let me on board because, they said, I was supposed to be there 5 minutes in advance.  Grrrr.  I watched them lift the gangplank and sail away.  I had an hour to kill before the next ferry, so I wandered to a nearby snack stand to have something that was translated as "grilled sausage on bread," accompanied by "cucumber salad hacked with spices."  It turned out to be a hot dog with relish.

The ferry ride was gorgeous -- worth the wait -- and the castle was fun.  The best part was the 18th century theater, which had many of its original scenery and trappings.  During the guided tour of the theater, I volunteered to go backstage to help make an 18th century theatrical "thunderstorm."  To make thunder, you pull a rope rapidly one way, which tilts over a box -- a bunch of rocks rolling inside it make the thunder -- then pull it rapidly the other way to tilt the box again.  Meanwhile, another guy made the "wind" by craning a handle on this big drum.  Very fun -- almost as good as when that priest let me ring the bells in Durham Cathedral a few years back (although, really, nothing ever was as good as that).

Wired in Stockholm

I set off on July 11 for a month-long trip in Scandinavia, starting off in Stockholm.  Highs in the 70’s, lows in the high 50’s, brilliant sunshine through the day (and most of the night), and low humidity -- what more could a runner (or anyone else) ask for? Stockholm is built on 14 islands connected by bridges, and all around the islands and bridges are pedestrian and bike paths. It’s just fabulous.

Stockholm is gorgeous, but my hotel room (in the Rica City Gamla Stan) left something to be desired -- extremely tiny, dark, warm and airless, with no air-conditioning. I had to go down to the desk to get a tiny fan.  This is apparently one of those places where they stick the single people in rooms that are dramatically less comfortable than the rooms where they put couples.  What do Europeans have against single travelers?  Smaller I don't mind, but sometimes I feel that they've wedged me into a closet in the attic, and this is one of those times. 

As usual, I could not sleep at all the first night here -- my typical reaction to jetlag, probably made worse by the fact it was light out most of the night. There are a couple of hours of twilight around midnight, but otherwise, it’s daylight -- it’s light out at 3 a.m. Wired as hell, I got out of bed to snap a picture of the daylight at 3 am, and debated going out to run. I decided it was mildly ridiculous to run at 3 am, and it might wreak further havoc with my body clock, so I lay down patiently until 4:45, when it seemed moderately reasonable to go out for a run. Well, it was wonderful. The streets and waterfront are just jammed during the day, but at 4:45, the seagulls and I had it all to ourselves for six miles, except for two stragglers weaving their way along (they seemed to be heading home to sleep it off rather than heading out to start an early day).  On my way back, a couple of bikers passed me, just starting their morning. It was glorious.

I got back to the hotel, and luckily they were just starting to set out breakfast. I ate an absolutely mammoth breakfast (soft boiled egg, bread, cheese, ham, salami, herring, pancakes with jam and whipped cream, pastry, juice, fruit and coffee. That’s just what I ate, by the way -- there were also a few other things on the buffet that I didn’t try.) I was done by 7 am, just in time to take a 2 hour nap, and still get out the door before most of the daytrippers got out there.