The Comment That Became a Post

Claudia Wollny and Caroline Wise in Frankfurt, Germany

This is the first comment that rose to a level that demanded I convert it into a post. On this day, when Claudia and Caroline were hanging out, I was able to selfishly slip away for writing and ice cream. I was hoping that Caroline was going to post a little something about her and Claudia’s time together, but it has turned out that Claudia beat Caroline to the punch by leaving a very sweet comment in German on my entry. I asked my wife for a translation so I could post it here because it doesn’t belong unseen below a blog entry:

It was a magical day – almost as if time had stopped breathing for a moment. The sun was shining and it was somehow unreal to actually see each other when we usually just chat. I would like to add a few more memories from my perspective.

The day before, I was panicking because I had wanted to come by car. It’s a good thing that I came by train after all. I was so happy to meet Caroline and finally get to know John in person (who had initially planned to just say hello and then bow out politely). Naturally, he was immediately “arrested” and had to have coffee with us, followed by lunch at an Italian restaurant. How thoughtful of John to swap seats with me because my spot was a bit drafty. We spoke both German and English, which worked very well.

After lunch, John sought some alone time, mindful of their imminent departure for America. So, after walking through the pedestrian zone looking for a pleasant spot, Caroline and I ended up heading to the same elegant café where we had enjoyed our coffee outside earlier that morning. Since, as we all know, calories don’t count when traveling, we grasped the moment and, without hesitation, indulged in the tastiest ice cream sundaes with hot raspberries and cream. I conceded halfway through – which is not my usual style – Caroline held out a little longer…

Unfortunately, time passed far too quickly, and so we rushed to the train station, where my train was already waiting.

One last hug, and then another, and another…. three, four? … while we nervously awaited the impending call for the train’s departure. Then, impermanence struck, and the doors closed. Like a dream.

Claudia

Are We Gone Yet? Nope, This is Frankfurt

Heddernheim in Frankfurt, Germany

Good morning to the dawn, and hello to the light of day. Thank you for welcoming us into another waking moment where we can consider how we might use our time to wander into the most amazing lives we’ll ever know.

Heddernheim in Frankfurt, Germany

And here comes the sun to shine on Café Dillenburg where we are fetching our daily bread and entertaining the idea that we could bring some of their Brötchen home with us, and I’m not only talking about this home away from home at Haus Engelhardt. With our morning meal bagged up, we raced back to Blauwiesenweg, where the butter and all variety of jams will join a pot of coffee for the greatest breakfast ever experienced. Unless you know the real pleasures of echtes Deutsches Brot, you cannot relate to my endorsement of this fascination and luxury to be had when munching on fresh Brötchen with homemade jams.

Frankfurt, Germany

No time to spare as we have things to do and people to see. The vacation within the vacation continues, while the vacation from vacation(s) will have to wait until Saturday night after we land and all of Sunday before Caroline steps back into work and I get busy trying to knock out a bunch of blog posts. Having only about 36 hours of recuperation sounds dire and likely difficult considering our age, but that’ll be nothing a lot of coffee can’t conquer.

Frankfurt, Germany

Who schedules these itineraries? It’s already 9:45 as we near the corner where Lebenshaus sits across from the Main River; our first date of the day is expecting us any minute.

Jutta Engelhardt and Caroline Wise at Lebenshaus in Frankfurt, Germany

Guten Morgen, Frau Engelhardt. Hello, Mr. Wise. With the formalities out of the way and Jutta finished with her breakfast, we offer the briefest of visits as we are meeting someone at the Hauptbahnhof in less than an hour, but we’ll be back later.

Lebenshaus in Frankfurt, Germany

Yo dude, how’s God?

Römer in Frankfurt, Germany

Check the background; God is everywhere.

Römer in Frankfurt, Germany

I wonder, too, about how many times I’ve shared a photo from right here at Römer, but today, I’m trying something new; later, I’ll share another photo of Römerberg but from a different angle.

Subway station in Frankfurt, Germany

While this might look like a decoration in the floor of something or other, it’s actually a 1000-year-old rod of gold that was buried by a Valkyrie and is said to provide eternal life to all those who lick it to taste the flavor of Valhalla that it connects to. I swear.

Hauptbahnhof in Frankfurt, Germany

Seems I might have misread this sign in the past. A dozen years ago, Caroline and I were visiting the Montreal Basilica, and I thought this sign (displayed without the Psst message) was a signal to parents that it was okay for children to pick their noses, but seeing the sign like this changes the meaning significantly. I thought about correcting that old post, but I’ve decided to leave it as proof that for once in my 60 years, I’m owning one of my mistakes.

Claudia and Caroline Wise at the Hauptbahnhof in Frankfurt, Germany

It was just a year ago that this mystery woman on the left (I already know the one on the right) was this elusive figure from the Cologne, Germany, area the world had never seen. Today, I’m unmasking her: she is Claudia, the Brünnhilde of fiber arts, kumihimo, and tablet weaving, to be exact. Last year, Caroline traveled north to see her in person for the first time; today, Claudia traveled south so these two could meet again. How they have anything to discuss is beyond me as they chat on a near-daily basis, making the most of the time between Caroline going to sleep and Claudia’s waking to punctuate some rare time Claudia seems to find between performing her super-human; I think Nietzsche called it “Ubermenschian,” feats of fiber knowledge distillery that could only have emerged from mythology.

Caroline Wise's foot and her friend Claudia in Frankfurt, Germany

I think jealousy is in order here because consider this: Caroline loves me and makes me socks. Claudia has knitted a pair of socks for Caroline that she’s modeling right here, and while blurred, I think it’s obvious that Claudia is looking lovingly at this “wedding banded sock” pattern that I think the women were hoping I wouldn’t notice.

After allowing Claudia to buy us lunch because who doesn’t need a free meal after what we just spent in Scandinavia, I stormed off in a jealous huff of rage to drown my sorrows.

Frankfurt, Germany

At first, I considered throwing myself on the subway tracks, but this poster looking for leads of a corpse found in the Spandau forest back in 1988 kind of depressed me. Those haunting, hollow eyes made me realize that death wasn’t an option for me. But ice cream was.

Spaghetti Eis at Eis Christina in Nordend Frankfurt, Germany

The race against time unwinding is on with only 48 hours left before we step out of Europe to return home to the U.S. I’d opened a small window of two hours where I’d attempt to plumb some inspiration to write, but the limitation feels harrowing as my inclination is to shove the intensity of the previous month onto the page in as many words that I can wring out of my hand. I didn’t anticipate that the location I’d chosen to find my wit would be as busy as I found it, but it was a beautiful late summer day at the most popular ice cream shop in Frankfurt. I should have moved to a coffee shop, but minutes are precious when the clock cannot be paused.

Life is like this bowl of ice cream, refreshing and sweet, but it’s melting and will go away. I have a choice not to finish every drop and allow the remainder to be carried off, but who would allow a second or a drop to not be savored?

For 34 years, I’ve been returning to this corner at Wielandstrasse and Eckenheimer Landstrasse in Frankfurt’s north end. I lived nearby for six years and took everything other than my relationship with Caroline for granted as it was all just normal life of no special importance. Only in retrospect have I gained the perspective that the years of our 20s contribute greatly to our romantic notions and nostalgia for the world we were exploring as it lingers into the years. We were defining and shaping the people who would enter the next decade excited or bored, satisfied or angry, challenged or defeated.

Frankfurt, Germany

I see a couple of elderly ladies well into their 80s at an adjacent table while seemingly mirror images from their past; two young ladies about 21 years old are seated at the table on their other side. The young women have no idea yet that their future selves are already forming inside them and that what is so intensely important to them on this day will lose all importance before they know it. The rapid advancement and intrusion of technology and an ever-present media have torn the fabric between generations into irreparable shreds where the groups are nearly alien to each other. There is no regard for the elderly, who are bulldozed into giving up their bearings and made to feel incompetent, while youth have no time for studied reflection or even self-study before having to respond to the next wave of electronic stimulation.

When do we arrive at the place where we start to gather the knowledge that will best serve us? Are we collectively fooled into believing that the essentials are found in clothes, hair products, a favorite sports franchise, the band we currently love, or the subject blowing up on viral media? To be a composite of media contrivances is a cruel joke on the masses who feast upon anything other than the bitter questions of what it might mean to exist.

Frankfurt, Germany

There’s no suggestion that any particular area of study is going to deliver a hint of enlightenment or happiness. Likewise, only the idiot would fall for what’s being fed to society. For the sake of transparency, I, too, have played the idiot, and to an extent and on occasion still do. But, I also have some inkling that I must struggle in the word soup of my mind and ask myself: is this good enough? Have I been wasting my precious attention?

The line at the ice cream shop snaked around the corner as a kind of proof that we gravitate towards the sweet, and rarely do we lineup for the bitter. Bitterness introduces a grimace and the consternation that we have to contextualize our experience to find the value; it is not readily apparent. Time for me to go for a walk.

Starting from Nordend, I walked until I reached the Alte Nikolaikirche (Old St. Nicholas Church) on Römerberg. I dipped inside to take a respite from the bustle of the busiest square in the city. There are four of us in the church, which is peculiar when one considers how frequently it’s photographed. Then again, who on a sunny Thursday afternoon is interested in communing with their soul? The house of God is cold and nearly empty, and I suppose rightfully so when cake & coffee or a beer under a warming sun invites indulgence. I wonder if Jesus stands in a corner wondering where his faithful are.

Römer in Frankfurt, Germany

Turning from the Lord, whom I do not know, to my mother-in-law, whom I’m quite familiar with, I leave the church for the short walk to Lebenshaus but not before delivering that second promised photo from a different angle of Römerberg.

Jutta Engelhardt and John Wise at Lebenshaus in Frankfurt, Germany

We must try our best to capture the increasingly rare moments of the few that still exist, with those who have had impactful impressions upon who we’ve become. The math of what remains with a person of 88 years of age under their hat is one of numbers growing smaller. While my mother-in-law had nothing to do with my upbringing or early life impressions, she did have those impacts on the woman with whom I fell head over heels in love, her daughter Caroline. Not only that though, Jutta spent many a vacation with us in the United States, and in every departing, I had to contend with how I saw myself and how I interacted with Caroline’s mother. Her initial visits tended to be marred by my lack of sympathy and understanding of aging people. I struggled with the intransigence of someone habituated to a routine incompatible with my own. Reconciling my belligerence helped me grow and understand where the roots of those poisons were planted and what fed them; if I’m lucky, lessons were pressed right into my heart, and today, I’m a better person for my time shared with this lady.

Jutta Engelhardt and Caroline Wise at Lebenshaus in Frankfurt, Germany

Shoot, earlier, I went on some made-up tirade about some tryst or something between Caroline and Claudia; yeah, well, I was joking, but I did go have a Spaghetti Eis because every time is a good time for a treat from Eis Christina. Sadly, upon our return to Phoenix, we learned that after 50 years in business, Eis Christina is calling it quits, at least at this location, as they left a hint they could open elsewhere in the future, but that remains uncertain.

What is certain is that Caroline still loves me and will still make socks for me and that she loves her mother. Rarely does a Sunday pass while we are in the States that these two don’t talk on the phone for at least a couple of hours, and while we are in Germany, we try to take every opportunity to say hi, take her out for a sweet, sit with her next to the river, have a coffee, and simply share time with her.

Main River in Frankfurt, Germany

So much beauty, potential for happiness, and great moments can be found in a day, though this seems amplified by the fact that we are traveling and only in places momentarily. Stopping to think about it, isn’t that what we have at home, too? What is it about routine that throws a pall over the day? Could it be that while engaged in habit, we forget to look up and see what our reality is? Well, I think it’s that and something else, which is the attitude of those around us. If the outlook of those around us carries an intellectual pallor that is gloomy and full of dark storms, we risk getting pulled into their maelstrom. We can walk across the bridge with someone we love and with whom we enjoy smiling and delight at the opportunity to be taking in life, but we can also fail to see any hope due to depression and gravity that pulls those exposed to negativity and despair into the void.

Main River in Frankfurt, Germany

I think of my own days walking through this city, unable to see the brilliance of the day, when everything was cast in shades of gray due to my dejection of not only feeling like an outsider in this foreign land but also because I felt like an outsider of the human race. That version of me, which wasn’t a daily thing but frequent enough that scars remain, is a person I’m happy to have left behind. Hardly a day goes by where I don’t wonder why society cultivates this type of harm against those who are vulnerable and what it is in the human character that desires to hurt those already in pain. While I’m an atheist, I still care for those who are poor, not only financially but poor of confidence and societal acceptance due to some perceived flaws that allow those of privilege to cast aspersions.

I’m not one considering an entry to the idea of heaven, but to too many of those who claim faith, how do you reconcile your blatant ignorance of the book that holds many lessons that are wholesome and good with the harm you inflict on the poor, hurt, and depressed people that are likely suffering due to your lack of concern to repair a society that rewards harm and aggression against those who cannot defend against your systems? Isn’t it your bible where the quote, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God, comes from?

Main River in Frankfurt, Germany

Please don’t take this last quote that a rich man is only the person with a lot of money; it pertains to all of us who have a rich life even if we are not financially in the greatest of places. What do we give to others? What do we take away or deny? Are we only rowing forward for our own sake? I supposed I’m okay with that reality, but then let’s put the pretense of some Christian ideology behind us. Let’s do away with the lies and admit that we are selfish, petulant little assholes enjoying the greed bag of stuff we can claw away from others. You, who give back through sharing knowledge, care, art, music, medicine, teaching, and protecting others, are the best part of Team Humanity that society cultivates on the margin.

Olaf and Sylvia with John and Caroline in Frankfurt, Germany

Today feels like a lesson in how to slice time into a hundred pieces. We started with breakfast at Haus Engelhardt, dipped in on Jutta, met up with a distant friend, ate ice cream, wrote, returned to Jutta, thought some more, and wrote, finishing the day with dinner in honor of our friends Olaf and Sylvia and their (by now young adult) children Johnny and Lucy. While this was possibly in recognition of Olaf’s upcoming birthday, I think it was more about friends getting together on one of the rare opportunities we are in proximity to each other’s orbit.

On our way, we stumbled past Dal Bianco Pizza on Darmstädter Landstrasse, which appears to be the long-lost place that I thought had the greatest garlic bread ever back when I lived in Sachsenhausen for some months around 1991, but that’s another story. I’m leaving this note here with the hopes that on a subsequent visit to Germany, we’ll remember that I left his breadcrumb. Closing out the night, Olaf introduced me to a couple of things he’s currently listening to; at the top of the list for me is the psychedelic band Wooden Shjips; he also encouraged me a listen to Little Simz, born to Nigerian parents in London, England. I find her real name, Simbiatu “Simbi” Abisola Abiola Ajikawo, far more interesting than Little Simz.

Moving in Reverse to Find the Exit

Caroline Wise at a tram stop in Frankfurt, Germany

I’ve been here before, meaning almost everywhere in Frankfurt. I feel no urgency to photograph anything because to see things unseen before today will prove difficult. A walk along the Main River, a visit to the cathedral, or any number of points? I no longer feel the pull to reacquaint myself with this city that is incredibly familiar and simultaneously distant. This is likely obvious if you’ve seen yesterday’s post that was a reflection of how unmotivated I was to document anything and only managed to share nine images and barely a thousand words.

Caroline Wise, Jutta Engelhardt, and Katharina Engelhardt in Frankfurt, Germany

Important memories though remain essential, and before leaving Caroline, Jutta, and Katharina to have a lady’s afternoon, I had to grab a group shot to memorialize the generations.

Locks on Eiserner Steg bridge in Frankfurt, Germany

Others are more interested in leaving a love lock on a bridge, which is a way of tagging a space and showing that “Kilroy and his girlfriend were here.” Throwing the keys into the river assures their love cannot be undone which ultimately ends in tragedy because someone must come along and destroy this connection by cutting it off the railing and disposing of it. Then again, all things are temporary, and the sentiment of the moment of leaving this visual sign for others is a romantic notion worth celebrating.

Frankfurt, Germany

If you are a native English speaker and could read this, you might think it’s a joke, but Die Partei is real and holds one seat in the European Parliament. As for the messaging of the sticker, it reads Fuck All of You! As for their name, The Party, yes, it is a satire of fascist parties and is also a backronym meaning Partei für Arbeit, Rechtsstaat, Tierschutz, Elitenförderung und basisdemokratische Initiative (“Party for Labour, Rule of Law, Animal Protection, Promotion of Elites and Grassroot-Democratic Initiative”). In America, we have a rigid two-party system that languishes in a stalemate of lethargy while compromise has been lost to hate and division.

Frankfurt, Germany

This city remains in constant motion, a stream of things, ideas, architecture, culture, people, and the flow of the river that slices through it. Everything is changing, a perpetual movement that doesn’t stop for people, time, or the stupidity of politics and biases that so often stymie cities and populations in the United States. Frankfurt has a peculiar nature of drawing things in and pushing them right back out, be it capital, music, philosophy, art, trade, or whatever it is that needs to find wider distribution.

Frankfurt, Germany

This constant movement of change doesn’t stop people from trying to hold onto time by entering routines where places and favorite stops along the way are habituated. Jobs and school help lend ideas of permanence, as do the hymns sung at church. There will always be those searching for consistency that assures them that they are living in a kind of eternal moment where their existence might remain until the end of their time on earth.

Begging in Frankfurt, Germany

And then age makes an appearance. Not the common day-to-day, year-to-year kind of stuff but the shuffling, walker, or cane-assisted slow pull into dissonance that will affect us all. Will you schlep your frame with grace or will you deny what everyone else around already knows? Denial among the elderly regarding their situation is as rife as the young are oblivious that they are spending their precious years chasing marketing dreams and fantasies created by capital.

Frankfurt, Germany

Did I see even one Litfaßsäule (advertising column) in Scandinavia or a wall at a train station featuring upcoming events? For all the talking we did with locals, we never asked about the local cultural scene. Reason #39 to return.

Subway stop in Frankfurt, Germany

Heading to Bergerstrasse in Bornheim Mitte, long-time residents will lament perceived gentrification, but the reality is more likely that the elderly of the aging neighborhood will move into assisted living like my mother-in-law did, and the young professionals and foreigners will be seen as interlopers ruining the place, just as Caroline and I get that vibe about Nordend where we used to live.

Subway stop in Frankfurt, Germany

The generation that took up residence here was coming of age and growing up out of the conflict of war. They are rapidly aging out, and as they leave Bornheim, the businesses that catered to them are no longer trendy, and the new residents are demanding services that speak to their dreams. Churn will happen, and businesses will leave, but if this corner of Frankfurt is lucky, laughter will return as many a grumpy old person appears to have lost the ability to laugh. Look at those who remain; there is a weary misery behind their eyes as they grow increasingly isolated.

Writing in Frankfurt, Germany

Of those who are young but in misery, the human necessity to explore waking dreams is largely broken. Maybe someone wasn’t able to identify with their parents or friends who were too focused on their own interests to support the child/teen. Other parents are more interested in pushing their own agenda on the indifferent child. Using children as surrogates of the self and our unrealized dreams, we spurn the mystery of what is sparking the imagination of a youngster. What sparks the curiosity of young people cannot be known or controlled by adults dominating this evolving person. At best, we can take a keen interest in the aspirations of others and allow them to share ideas with us instead of foisting ourselves on them. Isn’t this relationship the basis of a sharing love between people anyway?

Frankfurt, Germany

A mentoring inspirational role is a preferable path compared to the more often employed master/slave dictatorial relationship that brings out resentment or uncertainty. How is love given, and how is it taken or received? What happens when it’s demanded?

Döner Kebab in Frankfurt, Germany

We can recycle many things and will need to dispose of others. We can acquire skills, money, property, and lunch, but we have no means of trading emotions and dreams that can be intrinsically absorbed by others. Maybe stories can offer glimmers of possibilities if the listener is already familiar with what they can feed us.

Frankfurt, Germany

We either define our path in terms that are compatible with the herd, or we suffer being cast down the wrong trail where the chasm of the downtrodden falls into ruin. Once lost in despair, we often perform enough self-abuse to finish the harm our parents and society managed to miss. Deeply confused and wondering if we are the only ones experiencing such uncertainty, we can choose to ignore the nagging thoughts about existence. Are we on the right track, or must we inebriate ourselves, blaming our existential angst on factors perceived to be bigger than ourselves? From here, we can turn to God if we haven’t already, which is likely a valid salve for most people as it offers a quick and absolving message to trust God for all of these issues that are larger than we are.

Frankfurt, Germany

Who among us has time, mentors, or interest to answer big questions when the need for instant gratification looms over us and takes us down the path of consumption? Finding the headspace to explore the voids within can be treacherous going for the intellectually ill-equipped. Even those inclined to delve into the fragile domain of understanding and self-discovery often discover the risks, faltering into a pit of malaise built of their own making.

Frankfurt, Germany

Awareness of pitfalls is only the smallest factor in this equation. How to help one another find love and respect that can buffer a hostile inner and outer world is a dilemma I struggle to document as I go writing. Because I seem to have found my way, I’m desperate to formalize it into a recipe I could share, but meeting with resistance from others who feel that their brand of uncertainty and confusion is unique to them, I must first unravel the threads that separate us.

Grüne Soße in Frankfurt, Germany

Seeds give rise to plants; plants mature and become food that also produces more seeds, which perpetuates the cycle of replenishment. On a farm, weeds invade the cultivated fields, and for a time, our scientists believed that the most poisonous of substances that were prone to unintended side effects were needed to enter into warfare against undesirable growth. This is nearly identical to how we deal with people on the margins of society: we wish they would disappear. We poison them with drugs, alcohol, incarceration, and homelessness, and while some perish and vanish, those that remain inadvertently create consequences that feed a sense of crisis among those of us who wonder why our neighborhoods have taken on apocalyptic appearances.

Frankfurt, Germany

Breaking out new laws to wash the scourge away will never work, nor will militarized police forces but the alternative of trying to bring back a society to a kind of order of the mind and not rotting in mediocrity might be a task too grand for hope. The proverbial saying, “You made your bed, now lie in it,” tells us to face the consequences of our actions and that might be exactly what is facing us. No amount of soap can clean away our self-centered stupidity that puts the accumulation of wealth above all else, including the divine.

Drunk in Frankfurt, Germany

This man is piss-drunk, literally. His pants are wet down to his feet. He is so drunk that he spills most of the beer he has no interest in drinking because he’s consumed by wild gesturing and engaging me in conversation while I can’t make sense of a single slurred word. He had two bottles in his hands but one was flung without him noticing that it left his orbit. It was gladly picked up by another drunkard, surprised as much as I was that the bottle hadn’t shattered. This is how I see my fellow Americans, a ranting mess of piss-drunk nationalists unaware that they are throwing their democracy away like it’s a worthless bottle of beer all because they love reveling in jingoistic bullshit that only makes sense to the other inebriated half-wits, unaware of how stupid and lost they appear.

Writing in Frankfurt, Germany

That’s all I’ve got. I’ve stopped again and again today to write and didn’t go very far walking around Frankfurt. I imagine that Jutta, Caroline, and Katharina were off enjoying themselves, not kvetching about the ills of society. Maybe I absolve them of needing to yammer about such things thus allowing them to enjoy each other company while I work out the gravity of what ails us. This is part of my burden; my Sisyphean struggles with a pen.

Frankfurt, Germany

Enough of that; time for dinner with the Engelhardts in celebration of Stephanie’s birthday. Klaus had gotten a tip that this vegan Vietnamese place was highly recommended, and if getting a reservation on a Wednesday night is as difficult as this was, then it must be the popular place. Well, by the time we were leaving Ong Tao the restaurant was packed. For Germany, I understand why this place is popular, and vegan options are all the rage in many big cities in this part of Europe. They have a good thing going, but those of us who have had the opportunity to eat authentic Vietnamese food likely have a better understanding of just how much serious flavor is missing. All the same, we were not here for our own culinary experience; it was for Stephanie and her 58th Geburtstag.

Caroline Wise at Gluckstrasse 8 in Frankfurt, Germany

For the first time in 28 years, after finding an open door, we stepped into Gluckstrasse 8,  the building in which Caroline and I lived together before moving to the United States. How strange it was to head up to “our” door. Had someone been there, I would have knocked just to have a peek inside. Sure, this is where our love blossomed but not without an amount of tumult that makes the fact that we are still together all the more surprising.

Subway stop in Frankfurt, Germany

Germany is moving closer to disgorging us as we travel almost in reverse compared to the way we came into our vacation.

Going Home, Before Going Home

Flying out of Bergen, Norway

Who needs alarms when flying early in the morning? Not us; we were up about 10 minutes before our wrists were supposed to start vibrating at 4:00 a.m. In quick order, we were dressed and headed downstairs to wait for the taxi we’d arranged for yesterday.

Flying over Europe somewhere

Above it all and mostly distanced after 17 days in Scandinavia, we are still in a relatively safe space but that was coming to an unexpected end.

Flying over Germany

Two hours after leaving Norway, we are on the streets of Frankfurt, dragging our bags along for our first stop. On the train out of the airport, we noticed a marked difference between the polite and trusting Scandinavian culture we had left behind and the brusque and maybe even abrasive Germans. After 17 days of super civility, I wasn’t ready for the rude high school kids on a field trip riding in the same direction as us. Sadly, and yes, I’m aware that this will carry a hint of racism, their ethnicity combined with their aberrant behavior is part of what is likely giving rise to/sustaining the evergrowing nationalism in countries that are trying to integrate a growing immigrant population due to their own shrinking population. If you live in one of Germany’s big cities, you are likely inured to this spectacle of crass antics, but I can see how small towns would feel the sting.

The perspective shift of being enchanted when we land in Germany coming in from the U.S. is lost on entering from Scandinavia. Germany can be a bit cold and distant, but it’s mostly polite, respectful, and rule-driven, in stark contrast to the potential-of-violence-at-any-moment style of American uncertainty. If I’m reluctant about returning to the States after we visited Europe, this will be amplified when we return to Phoenix this coming weekend.

Frankfurt, Germany

Frühstück (breakfast) was at Cafe Liebfrauenberg near Kleinmarkthalle. Not our first choice, but with our bags in tow (including the broken-wheel suitcase), we were more interested in shortening the distance between getting something to eat and visiting with my mother-in-law, Jutta. While still sipping my coffee, Caroline zipped around the corner to a sewing shop, hoping to find a few notions she might be able to use to repair her quickly disintegrating purse strap that, after years of constant use, was about to render the bag useless.

Here I am, no longer just a tourist. I should be able to write something meaningful, but constant distractions drag my eye and mind to watching the goings on around me instead of slipping into exploring the profound. To write, I must drop into a kind of routine where my focus is undisturbed by novelty. When I’m able to look within and between the thoughts that give rise to impressions, my hand feels mysteriously compelled to leave words on the page. I’m aware that the majority of words that fall from my pen can be mundane and mediocre, but on occasion, I find that what has appeared from a recess of my mind exceeds any hopes I might have had to produce such eloquence. That is what I’d like to aim for all the time.

Caroline Wise and Jutta Engelhardt in Frankfurt, Germany

We’ve moved over to Lebenshaus, but Jutta is participating in an exercise program, and while we can see her, she’s not become aware of us yet. As we watch, I see residents I’ve become familiar with over the past couple of years and notice that changes in aging for the elderly can be significant. The process of decay robs people of a lot. This could be a part of our future, yet few of us are prepared for this. Slow death is not a popular entertainment subject nor a part of reality TV. How and why do we choose to hide the elderly or, at best, relegate them to the margin where they need not be acknowledged?

Am I on the spectrum regarding my social tensions? We are at Zum Standesämtchen and I’m starting to seethe at the empty state of these vacuous lower-order excuses for humans on vacation. Dignified people do not stand with mouths agape, we should not get pissy with someone talking in their native tongue to us in their country. They have no obligation to speak your version of one of the 7,117 languages distributed around our earth. We owe it to ourselves to, at a minimum, master our mother tongue, speak clearly with concision, and, when appropriate, slow things down and temper the volume. You are in someone else’s culture, and respect starts with you.

Creampuff in Frankfurt, Germany

When in a public space, I do not care where you’re from or what you like or don’t like about your vacation, life, or job. If it’s hot and humid or raining, nobody needs your pronouncement of the obvious. This is not small talk; it is the inanity of someone who needs to be at the center of attention or is afraid of the quiet. And don’t admonish me to pay attention to my own business as you drag yourself on stage screeching and dressing in ways that say, “LOOK AT ME!” The same goes for those of you sporting face tats and musculature that verges into the spectacle. You need and obviously desire attention and cannot dictate when your clown-ass has others gawking.

Away from Römer at Cafe Einstein with the throngs on the otherside of the threshold, I’m able to enjoy the moment with Jutta, sharing our experiences and a few photos from our vacation within a vacation. We spent a couple of hours at lunch and then another couple here chatting over coffee and sweets, which is not known as fika here in Germany.

Frankfurt, Germany

The plaque here at Römer reads:

On this site, on 10 May 1933, national socialist students burned the books of authors, scientists, publicists, and philosophers.

The outer ring reads:

That was only a prelude. Wherever they burn books, in the end, will also burn human beings. 1820 Heinrich Heine

Frankfurt, Germany

The sign says Construction Site Entry and I believe you should heed this as an admonition pertaining to your life; you are under construction and need to recognize that the work upon yourself is a never-ending project.

Frankfurt, Germany

Over the course of the last weeks in Scandinavia, embedded among the more than 67,000 words I’ve penned were near-daily laments of the behaviors of those I could only wish were not on vacation at the same time we were. If I were as smart as I’d like to aspire to you, I should have encapsulated it all into this succinct poster we saw towards the end of the day, “You are not a tourist. You are an ambassador.” Come to think about it, doesn’t this apply to the very person we’d like others to perceive?

The Odds and Ends of Bergen, Norway

Rainy scene in Bergen, Norway

Is that the patter of rain upon our window as we stir awake? It was inevitable that we should have at least one day out of the seventeen in Scandinavia that the forecast would deliver its promise, and here is that day, our last day before flying back to Frankfurt in the earliest hours of the morning tomorrow. This won’t be the first time we’ve seen the weather change as a signal that our time in our current location is coming to a close and that we’ll be moving on. If the rain is especially hard, it would also then become the perfect excuse to have a down day where we would catch up on writing and knitting, enjoy a last fika or two, another hot dog, or even make a serious effort to try whale so we can feel guilty for years to come. Just writing that assures me that we’ll never find ourselves eating a whale steak.

Comic bookstore in Bergen, Norway

After our languorous two-hour breakfast catching up on yesterday’s need for notes and in no hurry to rush into the rain, it felt like the time had arrived to move our numb butts away from the buffet and brave the wet outdoors. With umbrellas at the ready, we aimed for the hotel door only to see a respite from the rain. Oh, lucky day. Walking over to a church we hoped to visit first, we passed a comic bookshop with a cover in the window that caught Caroline’s eye. I thought the photo would suffice, but after a few steps and Caroline reading a bit about the artist, we agreed that we should take a second look. The proprietor showed us all the comic books he currently had in stock, which would have been lighter to pack, but we decided on the book in the window. [The cover might have had something to do with that. – Caroline] Fewer than 24 hours left in Scandinavia, and we’ve met the first person who only accepts cash.

Norwegian Kroners

We should be grateful to the man at Comics & Stories on Lodin Lepps Gate as after a very short walk around the corner to an ATM, we are seeing and holding Norwegian Kroners for the first time in our lives, which has us realizing that we never saw what the bills from Sweden or Denmark look like. With a copy of EON from Lars Lauvik now with us, we’ll have some translating to do once we get home and find the time to open the pages of Syvende Mor I Bedehuset, which Google translated to Seventh Mother In The Prayer House.

Bryggen in Bergen, Norway

There will never be enough time to satisfy the curiosity of exploring anywhere I’ve ever been or will go to. I can’t speak about the exploration of death yet, but my experience from a limited view of places I’ve visited suggests that weeks would be required to begin feeling like I’d become familiar enough not to entertain a small amount of panic that it is already time to go. To call that a panic is probably hyperbolic, except that it fits my inclination to lean into drama when the opportunity arises. The truth is I’m able to contain the tensions/sadness when I look at all of these fortunate encounters with the idea that we’ve merely become acquainted with places that might summon us back due to too many unsatisfied curiosities left to discover. All the same, I feel a certain need to turn over the leaves that show the corners and details that make up the big picture, and so today, I’m sharing the odds and ends found on our walk through Bergen.

Mariakyrken (St. Mary's Church) in Bergen, Norway

Did we really expect the doors of Mariakyrken (St. Mary’s Church) to be open for welcoming visitors? Of course, we did, and if had been raining, we could have sought refuge. Please, don’t remind me that we have umbrellas with us. I want my traveler trophies found in the photos of beautiful things I’m able to capture, but when I stop and think about it, these doors, the ironwork, and the heavy stones that support the church are spectacular in their own right. Trying to find out if and when the church is open, I came to learn that its limited hours (outside of summer) are Tuesdays and Fridays from noon until 2:00 p.m.

Snorri Sturluson statue in Bergen, Norway

This is awesome, a statue honoring the chronicler Snorri Sturluson from Iceland, who was not only a historian, poet, and politician but was friends with a king who likely had him murdered. You may not know about the Prose Edda (most likely) penned by Sturluson, but you probably know J.R.R. Tolkien’s derivative works that were highly influenced by the Edda: The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, and Silmarillion. We first learned of Snorri Sturluson a decade ago when we dove into a book about the Vikings, and it turned out that this man of many hats was the primary source of most of what we know of that age.

Rainy scene in Bergen, Norway

We headed back to the Bergen Cathedral because somewhere had read that it was open. No, it wasn’t; its hours are more limited than St. Mary’s: it closed about a half-hour after we arrived on Friday afternoon, the only day it’s open for a mere two hours. Good thing wet cobblestones glisten under the sky, making up for whatever spectacular sights we might have otherwise seen in the cathedral.

Rainy scene in Bergen, Norway

Somewhere between 1,200 mm (47 inches) and 2,500 mm (98 inches – 8 feet!) of rainfall in this city per year. I almost forgot to mention that two weeks before we flew from Arizona to Germany, a heavy storm washed out roads in Norway and Sweden and derailed a train, which contributed to our need to take buses for part of our journey.

Godt Brød in Bergen, Norway

Striking out trying to visit two different churches, the only thing left to do was drop in on a Church of Bread, Godt Brød. Morning fika? Sure, but we’ll split this cardamom roll because lunch is just around the corner. I’ll use the time to write in my endeavor to stay as current as possible about the events of the day.

But I can’t find the urgency to write and feel that I’m mainly sitting here with pen in hand, waiting for inspiration to strike. Maybe I’ll find it in the toilet? I’ll be right back. Nope, nothing there; maybe the hot dog stand will deliver food for the imagination.

Caroline Wise at Godt Brød in Bergen, Norway

Meanwhile, the woman across from me, likely eyeballing the theft of at least a bite of my half of the Kardemummabullar, has armed herself with a needle to stab me should I make a move on her half of the roll. Either she’s thinking of stabbing me, or she could be knitting; I’m never really sure when I’m lost in trying to ignore her while I selfishly pay attention to my notebook and everything else around me. In her right ear, she’s listening to Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow, which, at nearly 1,000 pages, is quite the long listen and delves into granular details; ask me how I know.

It’s peculiar, having no urgency to race into the last moments of this vacation. To simply sit here with the knowledge that the journey is coming to a quick close, and that’s okay. Strangely, returning to Frankfurt tomorrow feels like going home, though we are still five days away from our return flight to Arizona.

Rainy scene in Bergen, Norway

We’d already snagged a couple of Pølse (hotdogs) from across the way at Treskroneren when the sky yawned and let off a torrent in which the hardy locals kept going like it didn’t matter while we desert dwellers cowered under an awning to munch on our cheesy-bacon wieners because who likes soggy buns. Ten minutes later, the rain faded, and we were once again underway. Our walk over to the Leprosy Museum was for naught as yesterday was the last day of the season it would be open. Come back in April 2024 for a visit, the sign suggested. Too bad on missing this one, as it was right here in Bergen back in 1873, one-hundred-fifty years ago, that a young doctor named Gerhard Armauer Hansen discovered the leprosy bacteria, which is why leprosy is also referred to as Hansen’s disease.

Strikkelykke yarn store in Bergen, Norway

You’ll never believe what happened next. We revisited the Strikkelykke yarn store and left with one more locally dyed skein.

Nykirken (New Church) in Bergen, Norway

Yay, we will have our obligatory church visit today after the previous failures, but to be honest, the Nykyrka (New Church) was a dud.

Nykirken (New Church) in Bergen, Norway

Were I 25 again and on shrooms or even just high on weed, I might have better understood the psychedelic lighting, but today, it just felt gimmicky. It feels that this church from 1622 is being desecrated. Just be done with the god stuff and turn it into a full-fledged nightclub?

Nykirken (New Church) in Bergen, Norway

At least they have a crypt; that’ll be something, I was certain. More nope, a mishmash of rocks, dirt, some relics of unidentified things scattered willy-nilly. I’m unimpressed and ready to wash the disappointment from my expectations…

…and wash is exactly what we got as it started to rain again, pushing us to seek shelter under an arched passageway of the 18th-century customs house, a.k.a. Tollboden. Certain that this was the end and not just a lull, we pushed on.

Nordnes Park in Bergen, Norway

Seriously, more rain? By this time, we were looking for enough of it to masquerade our pants if we needed to wet them due to the urgency we were both suffering while we desperately searched for somewhere to discreetly let it go. Whoa, a public toilet that was open and fully ripe here in Nordnes Park saving us from “dropping trou” to relieve ourselves in front of God, Byfjorden, the trees, and nobody else because who else would be out here in the rain? Well, there was that guy kayaking just offshore.

Totem Pole gift from Seattle to Bergen, Norway in the Nordnes Park

One of Bergen’s sister cities turns out to be Seattle, Washington, who gifted Bergen this totem pole made of Oregon Pine for its 900th anniversary. One should stop and consider that this wood carving has been sitting in public for 53 years since it was presented to Bergen back in 1970, and nothing has been cut off, graffitied, burned, or otherwise intentionally harmed: a certain sign of civility.

Caroline Wise at Nordnes Park in Bergen, Norway

I’m feeling inspired and will consider offering Caroline a totem pole for our 900th anniversary, should we make it that far.

Fiskeridirektoratet in Bergen, Norway

Is this the Fiskeridirektoratet (Directorate of Fisheries)? Because it certainly doesn’t look like government buildings to me. Image search suggests that it is, so I’ll just go with it.

Rainy scene in Bergen, Norway

If I lived in Bergen, I’d certainly be out every rainy day to capture different aspects of a city reflected in standing water. Desert water is typically turbid, not this black mirror stuff, reversing the view of what towers overhead.

Alley in Bergen, Norway

Stenciled onto a wall in a narrow alley was this poem from Alfred Tennyson, written in 1889.

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face-to-face
When I have crost the bar.

Alley in Bergen, Norway

The intrigue of passages that slice through blocks to shorten the route are romantic notions here in Europe, while in New York City, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, they are paths to likely horrors. Here, as it grows later in the day, we begin discussing our Torschlusspanik (door-closing panic – German). Compared to earlier, when I was content to take things casually, we grew ever more aware that our time in Scandinavia was quickly ending. Even in the rain, we are in love with being here and feel like we’ve not yet scratched the surface of what there is to find in this old city.

Stockfish in Bergen, Norway

Stockfish (air-dried cod) was the lifeblood of Bergen for hundreds of years; just as salted cod drove maritime economies, this stuff was gold, while today, it’s nearly as rare as that gold, and at least in the U.S., nobody is going to the local grocery and picking up one of these shriveled fish. By the way, should you ever encounter a stockfish with its head attached and a bump on it, those are King Cod, and if you hang one in your home, it’ll bring you good luck.

Godt Brød in Bergen, Norway

Nothing says last-minute grasping at straws like finding indulgence in food, so how about we try to dry out a bit over our last Kardemummabullar?

Godt Brød in Bergen, Norway

That sounds and looks dandy, but is it Fika without coffee? Let’s throw caution to the wind even if we do have to wake at 4:00 a.m. to make our way to the airport because two Fika on the last day is obviously the right way to help bring closure to a great vacation.

Godt Brød in Bergen, Norway

Such an important part of every day, yet I rarely write about our toilet experiences. Stopping to consider what I just wrote, I realized I’ve written about toilets in the Grand Canyon while white water rafting, the same in Alaska, a disturbing stop on an Autobahn at the Krachgarten, and then there was that crass comment about peeing in Santa Claus, Indiana, I should stop here as I’ve likely written about the subject dozens of times.

Bryggen in Bergen, Norway

We’ve returned to the Bryggen area for Caroline to check on some last-minute gift ideas while I take what will turn out to be one of my favorite photos in Bergen.

Bryggen in Bergen, Norway

Rare is the day I post a second image of something I shared a couple of days earlier, but the different angle and the warm light make it look more appealing than the first image, and I’m not going to go back and remove the other one as it’s already a part of that day’s story.

Bryggen in Bergen, Norway

Gifts were had for two of Caroline’s coworkers. I swear that shopping is some kind of therapy for my wife and a needed activity at the end of a trip for her to gain a sense that every angle of possibility was reached and that the vacation is now complete.

Bien Basar Restaurant in Bergen, Norway

I suppose the same is true for me because we returned to Bien Basar for that one last tartar and my very own Persetorsk with the awesomest mashed peas I’ve ever had. The pressed cod and salty roe with a wedge of grilled cabbage also helped lend closure to me.

Port of Bergen, Norway

Back at the room, I wasn’t done taking photos, nor was I done packing, but by 10:00 p.m., we were done with everything except getting to sleep, which we needed to do quickly because our alarm was set to wake us in six hours.

Vikings, Germans, and Long Walks in Norway

View of the Port of Bergen, Norway

Mornings in our hotels have been the worst; it is the time when we are reminded that many of the guests are American, and we are bombarded with banshee cries and jingoistic claptrap. How do people drop words such as “tactical,” “team,” “situation,” “preparation,” “urgency,” “tactics,” and “security” into casual conversation while on vacation? Maybe they are on a military operation and wearing gym clothes for camouflage in a place where only people from the U.S. are wearing gym clothes and talking like they are operatives on a mission.

Then, at another table, I have to tune into the “History Buff,” dropping a nugget about something of importance regarding the area, but there’s zero context offered to the others at the table. This person shared some random factoid they gleaned from watching Jeopardy or playing Trivial Pursuit in the 80s, and their expertise leaves the others at the table in awe, or so it could be felt by those kowtowing to this self-anointed expert. Meanwhile, Europeans stay in their lane, eating bread, fish, cold meats and cheeses, granola, and fruit. At the hot table are my countrymen, not wavering from the eggs, bacon, potatoes, and pancakes as they prepare to chomp at the trough.

Typically, it is at breakfast that I start writing and try to catch up with what was neglected the day before, thanks to the exhaustion I felt when we hit the room at night. It is in this toxic environment that I run into what one hoped to have left behind on the shores of the U.S. This re-encounter triggers my writing hand to turn a reflexive scribble into a screed that dampens the moments before when blissful contentedness and dreams of a hot coffee were suggesting that a great start to the day was at hand.

Don’t think that my axe is only sharpened for an attack of Americans; I’m equally annoyed by the tracksuit-wearing East Europeans who are loud, use the ugliest ringtones on their phones, and stink of cigarettes. Next trip to Europe, we must avoid large cities or visit nearby cafes for breakfast, regardless of whether the meal is included in the cost of our hotel.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

We plan to remain close to the hotel should we need to fetch ponchos or our umbrellas, as the forecast suggests we might be needing them today. With limited post-tourism season hours, we opt to return to Bergenhus Fortress first because Håkonshallen closes at 2:00 p.m. About to pass the Rosenkrantz Tower, we see that we can purchase tickets for both locations, saving us a few NOK, and with plenty of time to spare, we visit the tower first.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

A sign in front of the tower told that the time was quickly approaching and a full renovation was becoming inevitable. Like in so many places across Europe (seen firsthand and read about in our post-COVID-19 world), renovations and repairs seem to be happening everywhere all at once. At the Bryggen area near our hotel, four of the historic facades are wrapped in scaffolding while preservation work is underway, and, as you’ll remember, we were denied the opportunity to see the Oseberg Ship at the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo since that destination is closed until at least 2026. At least that’s not quite as bad as the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, which is now closed for renovations through 2037.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

Here in the basement area of the tower with a lack of windows, the dungeon vibe offers me a happy place but also one of claustrophobia when I consider that the tower sustained heavy damage back in 1944 when a German cargo ship carrying 120 tons of dynamite exploded in the harbor, enough to destroy much of the fortress, blast away the southwest wall of the tower, collapse the floors, send the roof into another dimension, and gut Håkon´s Hall. By the way, the vibe I’m describing fits because this lower level is the dungeon.

Rosenkrantz Tower was built back in the 1270s, and the Medieval feeling of the place is alive and well with narrow passages and poor lighting. The inner core of the tower is supposed to be the original from the time King Magnus Lagabøte of Norway ruled from here, but by the 16th century, sheriff Erik Rosenkrantz added to the tower while Norway was under Danish rule and hence the name that has remained to this day.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

The importance of creating opportunities to see for ourselves the important places in our histories where events were set in motion and a patchwork of stories emerged cannot be understated. It is up to us to visit our pasts and drag the various threads forward if future generations are to piece together new stories touching on and learning from past successes and failures while also threading the complexities and uncertainties into new experiences that will forge the path for others to take.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

I can be disappointed at what I cannot see, but I can also be grateful for the millions of things I never anticipated encountering, such as the love I share every day and every moment when Caroline is in my thoughts. Taking time and spending money to read, gaze upon the sea, walk up narrow dark stairways, enter a church, look upon a piece of art I could have never imagined seeing with my own eyes, or try to understand the myriad of impressions streaming into my senses is already the most incredible gift that in my view would be a wasted opportunity if I were not somehow trying to give back to humanity the opportunity afforded us.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

When it comes to writing about these experiences, there’s a certain mystery as to what will show up in the post. Like ascending these stairs, travel takes us to places that cannot always be fully anticipated before we arrive at the ultimate destination. Our itinerary for Bergen included 18 potential locations or activities to possibly take in, but which ones we’d fall into was ambiguous. By choosing one of the suggestions or deciding to just wander about, we would, in any case see new things and places. This is where my reference to writing comes in because, like during travels, I do not have time to linger, nor can I return to a place for greater familiarization shortly after our visit; I have to keep going forward. As quickly as I can, I try to capture impressions before moving on to the next place. The luxury of knowing what I’m encountering with any intimacy will have to wait for another day when greater consideration can be given to the subject matter, landscape, or idea.

Consequently, fleeting impressions become memory salad. Images and words are tossed into a blender, risking to turn vacations into a gray slurry of the things that were seen, touched, heard, tasted, considered, read, and spoken of. While in the act of spinning, top-like, through the experience, I’m grasping at the most notable moments, racing to pull them into the area of my mind that might hold them tight for more than a second or two. And then, when I’m home, assembling these illustrated musings that reflect how we careened through a landscape like a pinball moving over its playfield, I must move quickly before falling through the drain of forgetfulness and ending the session. Nobody gets to play forever as everything ultimately comes to an end, be it the end of vacation, the end of the sentence, the end of a thought, or the end of a blog post that signifies it’s time to move onto a new game, a new story, a new adventure.

Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

You might think that this is our good fortune because we were traveling, but what you may not be considering then is that we had to step into these adventures with minds tuned to extracting value regardless of the situation nature and chance were cultivating for us. We do not enter a space with three-foot (one-meter) thick walls, wooden floors, and the ambiance of more than 700 years of collected time to have them generate enlightening impressions that allow me to simply push out these narratives. We return home and have to reconcile who we were before the experience, what we gained, and what we desire to invest in ourselves to inflate memories into giants that tower over our lives.

View from Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

From the past, we attempt to see and define our future. From the top of the medieval Rosenkrantz Tower, we can look at the combination of new and old and be thankful that the ages can coexist. This is a human lesson lost in consumption that only sees the transaction as a means to the future. We are blind and locked in the dungeons of capitalism while the cargo ship of climate change is exploding to take this all away before the majority of humanity understands what they lost because they didn’t know what they had.

Haakon's Hall at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

On the other side of the tower lies Håkon’s Hall, originally built between 1247 and 1261 by King Håkon Håkonsson. Bergenhus Fortress was the royal estate, and the hall was one part residence and one part banquet hall.

Haakon's Hall at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

Standing next to the nearly demolished Rosenkrantz Tower, Håkon’s Hall didn’t fare much better from the dynamite explosion in the harbor, as seen in this photo taken after the event. After 17 years of meticulous restoration, the royal facility was reopened in 1961. The 700-year-old icon of Norwegian history was once again a national treasure open to all visitors.

Haakon's Hall at Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

A grand ceremony presided over by Crown Prince Olav ushered in the reopening of the hall. The Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra was on hand to perform Edvard Grieg’s Incidental Music for Peer Gynt while dignitaries and others attended the festivities. There’s a photo in the hall showing the pomp and circumstance that was brought to Bergen on that day, but you’ll have to visit Håkon’s Hall to see it for yourself.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

Not ones to stand still unless it’s time for a fika or pølse, our next stop was at the nearby Bryggens Museum. While difficult to make out, metal rods are hanging over these foundations to show where walls, doors, and roofs would have been of these homes in the early history of Bergen. From the timbers that still exist, it was obvious that these buildings were destroyed by one of the many fires that decimated Bergen repeatedly over its 1,000 years of history.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

WARNING: Strong language in the following paragraph could be offensive to some readers – the translation of 1,000-year-old rune sticks can be colorful and downright vulgar.

Runes weren’t only used on stones; they were also carved on wooden sticks left in places of socializing, such as the pub where teases, insults, threats, or invitations were left for other patrons. Some of my favorite rune stick translations are “Horrid is he who brings drink to the cunt,” and “Sit down and read the runes, stand up and fart.”

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

Behind the skeletal remains stands an altar from the Dale Church in Luster, Norway, while the Madonna came from the Granvin Church, which is now a part of the town of Voss that we passed through yesterday. Regarding the human remains, all I can add at this time is that they were not my own.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

There is so much more to this museum than I’ll be able to share here. Suffice it to say that if you are interested in things relating to the Vikings up to the Middle Ages of this corner of Norway, you’ll likely find it here. Being frugal with what I can post, considering that there are already 57 photos accompanying our day, I am focusing on fiber arts-related tools from the Viking age for the short time we’ll be here at the Bryggens Museum.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

A ribbon woven over 700 years ago continues to exist, while the shirts I bought last year are already showing the kind of wear that means they won’t be wearable much longer.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

These stones with holes in them are not an early form of currency; they are whorls for drop spindles, adding momentum to the spindle and making spinning fibers far more efficient. Considering the variety of whorls we’ve seen in different museums, I can’t help but think that these were status symbols, demonstrating a kind of elevated standing similar to what people try to gain by wearing expensive watches today.

Bryggens Museum in Bergen, Norway

Lost in the past, we checked the time and were startled to find that our reservation for 1:00 p.m. at the next museum up the street was just 20 minutes away. Out the door we flew, grateful to have seen what we had, even if it was a mere fraction of the exhibits.

The Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene in Bergen, Norway

Before leaving Arizona, I had read this tour might be difficult to get on at the last minute, and with my curiosity about the subject, it was one of the few places for which I made reservations. While we got turned around for a minute on our way over due to construction, we were still on time for the English tour of the Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene.

The Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene in Bergen, Norway

At or around 1350, the Germans set up shop in Bergen, establishing a branch office of the Hanseatic League (Hanse in German) that operated in this area known as Bryggen. For 400 years, their foothold was secure with their German countrymen growing rich at the expense of the Norwegians who took a cut, but it was the Germans who owned trade routes and contacts allowing them to control markets. The Hanseatic League got underway in the 12th century, setting its headquarters in Lübeck, Germany, while international regional offices were situated here in Bergen, Norway; Riga, Latvia; London, England; Novgorod, Russia; and Skåne (Scania), which is the southern tip of Sweden, where we visited Ystad, Malmö, and Lund. The biggest Hanseatic cities in Germany were Hamburg and Bremen, but they had smaller offices in many towns, such as Lüneburg. Back in 2013, Caroline and I visited Lübeck after dipping a toe into southern Denmark, but we didn’t stay long at all and hadn’t considered spending time there to learn something more about the Hanseatic League, but now my curiosity says we have to return.

The Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene in Bergen, Norway

There were strict rules the Germans had to adhere to while they were working away from home, including that they could not own property outside of Bryggen and they were not allowed any contact with Norwegian women. As a matter of fact, no women were allowed in their trade zone at all. New German workers came in as apprentices at the age of 11 and wouldn’t return to Germany until they had completed their apprenticeship and journeymen years.

The Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene in Bergen, Norway

It was right here in this red room that I found out one of the most interesting things I would learn today. Red paint, used since at least Medieval times for painting houses and barns, was a mixture of animal blood, oil, and rust. I have to wonder how this emerged out of history and if its roots are related to Jewish biblical instructions regarding Passover or if the custom was originally part of Pagan rites.

The Hanseatic Museum and Schoetstuene in Bergen, Norway

Fire and the use of it here in Bergen played an important role on our tour due to the history of large parts of the city burning to the ground. After parts of Bryggen were lost to fire in 1702, the Germans rebuilt their offices, only to be squeezed out of business in 1754. In the intervening years, warehouses and the old wharf were lost to fire again, and even the Bryggens Museum we visited just before this tour sits on a site cleared in a 1955 fire. This photo was taken in one of the large kitchens that fed the Germans working here, and the story about the rules governing the usage of fire and the precautions taken is quite interesting.

Bryggen in Bergen, Norway

Stockfish was the primary item of trade here, rounded out by other animal products, often originating in the northern coastal region of Norway. The hour went by quickly and ended here facing the old trade fronts of Bryggen. You can see that three buildings are currently being renovated while another one behind us is also shuttered. That building out of view houses the Hanseatic Museum. Our tour had us visiting the Schoetstuene (Assembly Rooms), and it would take until we got home before we learned that we missed out on more things to see there, which will necessitate a return visit to Bergen, hopefully on a rare sunny day.

Caroline Wise with hotdogs at 3-Kroneren in Bergen, Norway

Trekroneren was a must-visit because how many hot dog stands are open from 11:00 in the morning until 4:00 the next morning? A popular hot dog stand is the answer and with ten different types of sausage, they must surely have something for everyone, except for the vegetarian. One of the takeaways from this trip to Scandinavia is that we love the Pølse from the far north because, with the addition of ketchup, mustard, and crispy onions, they have mastered the American classic.

Rolls at a bakery in Bergen, Norway

After yummy wieners, the only natural path was for us to bring ourselves to Godt Brød for, you guessed it, FIKA! Left to right, first up is the cinnamon bun, next up cardamom buns, and over on the right, almost out of view, is a skolebrød I described when we arrived in Oslo. With a coffee and bun delivering another amazing fika, we were ready to take on a distant journey.

On the trail to Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

First, we needed a bus south since we were not interested in walking the 15-kilometer (about 10 miles) roundtrip to and from our next destination. Somehow, we negotiated the ticket purchasing with our bus driver, and once it got us as close as it could, we had about a mile walk down a steep street before turning onto a forest path that had us climbing uphill.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

This is the Fantoft Stave Church, or more correctly; it is the completely reconstructed copy of what used to be the church before Varg Vikernes of the Black Metal band Burzum burned it to the ground. The original was built around 1150 in Fortun over on the eastern side of the Sognefjord, and it stood there until the community wanted to tear it down and replace it with a modern church. In 1883, a prominent Bergen businessman named Fredrik Georg Gade had it moved piece by piece to Bergen. Sadly, over 1,000 stave churches were destroyed over the centuries, and now only 28 of the relics survive.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

The cross was moved up here to Bergen from southern Norway. It is believed to have been created in the earliest years of Christianity when it was moving into the country and displacing the older Pagan belief system.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

On one hand, some of the authenticity that would have been present in the old church is missing as 850 years of aging were lost in the fire, but then again, that allows us to see it much the way it would have appeared to somebody entering this building in the first years after it was built all those years ago.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

Kneeling before a congregation, someone took to the pulpit and likely used a series of poems, stories out of oral tradition, and reminders of laws and customs to speak to the local community and remind people of obligations, events on the calendar, and the ties that bound them to history in the hopes of paving the way to better tomorrows.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

No matter what we read, see, or visit, we’ll never really understand the world our distant ancestors lived in. The way people pretend through silly costumes, hairstyles, and symbols that they are somehow channeling something pure is a travesty without vision, purpose, or ability to self-guide themselves into their own time, their own heritage that, like it or not, is carved from the period in which we are living. While most everything we learn is from the past, we cannot return there, and the only reason people can dwell in romanticized ideas of a distant age is because rather than exist in nihilism and existential uncertainty, a kind of twisted brand identity is created for them where these lost souls can purchase a construct that offers salvation and escape from an abyss of society’s creation.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

When I was a young man, I found foolish the ideas that informed “primitive” religions and, probably like many people brought up in Christian faith, thought that “my” faith (even when I was doubting the veracity of its “truths”) still felt far more logical than any Pagan, Hindu, or Indigenous person’s weird beliefs. Now that I’m older and wiser, I can see the genius of creating stories and mythologies that could unite people in survival, sharing, and community.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

Stories that transcended humans and endowed gods with creation and destruction abilities taught people that they were not themselves gods because the transactions of the all-mighty happened in loftier realms that set the stage for us to be the fortunate inheritors of what the gods offered us. We then were left to find our way in nature and community, remaining ultimately answerable to our creator(s) and held accountable amongst ourselves to not usurp so much power over others that we deluded ourselves into believing we’ve become a god. In this sense, I find it remarkable, regardless of religion, that this form of powerful mythmaking is found throughout history as far as we can measure and across geography.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

Should you be wondering why stave churches are black, and they mostly are, it was not because there was something sinister about them but because black tar was readily available in Norway and proved to be a great sealant to protect the all-wood structure from snow and rain. If you had the idea that these Gothic black buildings had something to do with Norway’s Pagan past, the Pagans built temples that faded away or were destroyed, while burial mounds and stone circles were mostly left untouched. These dark, slightly foreboding churches were built after Christianity was introduced to Norway and consequently have nothing at all to do with Paganism.

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

My poor, sad brain, holding biased opinions that my upbringing conditioned me to hold, can’t help but want to see a certain amount of animism and otherness in the architecture and carvings that are simply different. While I appreciate what I’m seeing, I’m looking for a deeper meaning that must differentiate this serpent as having a dark meaning compared to the griffin that adorns so many Catholic churches. The steep roofing obviously hides a mystery beyond what I can glean at a glance, while the sacred geometry used in the building of cathedrals must be benign because that’s what I grew up accustomed to. How big is the tragedy that we typically want to see people who lived 1,000 years ago as being primitive, and yet we carry around an ignorance of our world that is so big as to dwarf the scale of pyramids and cathedrals?

Fantoft Stave Church in Bergen, Norway

The weather forecast had called for a 90% chance of rain, a bullet which by now we figured we’d dodged, but, nope, here’s the rain.

Paradis Tram Stop in Bergen, Norway

Not interested in returning the way we came if there was a shorter, dryer route, we asked the women at the gate of Fantoft Church about an alternative. They directed us here to Paradis, which somehow felt appropriate, better than hell anyway.

Caroline Wise and John Wise in Bergen, Norway

After taking well over 2,000 selfies of Caroline and me over the years, it’s always nice to find a reflective surface that offers a variation of the tried and true method of pointing the camera back at us.

Homeless person sculpture in Bergen, Norway

The plaque at the feet of this homeless person sculpture reads, “No one is just what you see.” While looking for information regarding the sculpture, I did find a comment on a post featuring a similar photo; it read, “In Scandinavia, homeless are a rare sight, so we have to build statues of them to remind ourselves of how good things are.” – from Dudestereo posted on 9Gag.

Port of Bergen looking over to Bryggen, Norway

It was 3:00 p.m. when we took the bus down south and now that it’s after 5:30 and most tourist options are closed, we are at a loss of what to do. It was at that moment that the two of us knew that a fika would help us think about our options. After finding a Backstue (from the chain of bakeries we had enjoyed in Oslo) open till 7:00 p.m., that’s where we aimed our feet. No cinnamon or cardamom rolls were left, but we weren’t about to turn our noses up to a pretzel croissant and a couple of coffees. Almost better than our break was the conversation with the woman maintaining the shop this late in the day. Holding dual citizenship between the U.S. and Norway, this university student, who normally lives in Oslo but is in Bergen for its law school, voiced her recognition of how fortunate she is to be able to attend school for an advanced degree at no cost to her. While she has family in Wisconsin, where one of her parents was born, she has no interest in ever living in America as she finds the quality of life in Europe better. Her one complaint was that she can’t wait to get out of Bergen as it’s too rainy and she’s looking forward to returning to Oslo.

Still without a plan but with a dinner recommendation from the woman at the bakery, we start to wander about guiltily. How can we be in a foreign city, one of the most important at one time, and not know what to do? Mind you, it is Sunday, and as I pointed out, almost everything is closed.

The Fløibanen Funicular in Bergen, Norway

We looked up the cloudy mountain to which the funicular takes sightseers and reluctantly agreed to give it a whirl. Before buying our tickets, the salesperson warned us that the view from the top was currently obscured by a heavy fog layer. This explained why we saw others walking away from the ticket window. Undeterred and with nothing else going on, we decided to forge ahead.

View from the Fløibanen Funicular in Bergen, Norway

Okay, we considered this view our money’s worth. The ride-up offered us a partial view that justified the expense. Even if we just turned around up top, at least we had spent some time there that would allow us to check off yet one more item from our itinerary.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Once far above the city, it was so foggy that even the nearby forest started to disappear.  While the participants of an outdoor yoga class were packing up their mats in the mist, we recognized that our roundtrip tickets were for naught. Not that we were about to throw ourselves off the mountain as human sacrifices to a Norwegian God who accepts this type of offering instead, we were going to meander down the mountain through the mysterious forest.

View from Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Hey Caroline, did we even walk a dozen steps before looking over our shoulders and seeing that the view had cleared? Back to the viewing platform with a direction sign informing us that New York City was 5623 kilometers one way and Istanbul 2692 kilometers away in a different direction. The sign also denoted that at this spot on Mount Fløyen, we were 320 meters (1049 feet) above sea level.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Back on the trail, we knew it was inevitable that we’d run into a troll or two at some point, but a two-headed troll surprised the two of us.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Wow, this is nothing like the Huldra we saw at Kjosfossen waterfall in Myrdal who wore a red flowing dress and danced for us to thumping Teutonic beats right out of the Middle Ages. I guess the carver of this forest spirit was having a bad day or didn’t understand that buck teeth are not appealing in any culture I’m aware of.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

The decision to take the forest path was a great one. Good thing we had been at a loss about what to do with the rest of the day because this walk ended up being a significant highlight of the trip, but then again, most everything all the time ends up being the highlight that will define our vacation.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Just another cairn? Not hardly; it is a small monument to being human. Cairns are not required here along our well-defined trail down Mount Fløyen, so why is one here? It turns out that this activity of stacking stones for various reasons has been going on long before the various cultures of our planet made contact with each other. These analog all-natural communication towers can signal the presence of a trail, but they have also been used to mark territory, denote gravesites, and they can have spiritual purposes.

Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Lush and verdant are two words that quickly come to mind when the quiet forest seeps into our senses and whispers for us to notice the little things, such as these dew drops that have the appearance of fairy lights. When entering into this conversation with nature, it is as though our mind is traipsing in the joy of understanding that we are in a place perfected by the hand of time.

Caroline Wise on the trail on Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

I’m aware that Caroline knows I’m here, but I also know she’s lost in the profound beauty and complexity of the world around her. While walking ahead, there’s a tape playing within her heart and mind, repeating thoughts of how charmed our moments are when together we are discovering corners of nature we couldn’t have dreamt we’d ever experience for ourselves. These times are waking dreams shared between two witnesses that reassure each other that they truly experienced these environments and that they were as magical as our recollections want us to believe.

View from Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Look below and try to see that 1000 years ago, there were houses, docks, chimneys, market squares, churches, and people who could never have imagined that one day, a world vastly different from their own wouldn’t fully comprehend what they’ve inherited. A world replete with conveniences and luxuries that would exceed everything from their own time. Electricity, running water, both hot and cold but most importantly clean, trams, planes, food from all corners of the planet, the ability to communicate across all geographic limitations, the tools to capture, record, and share their lives with people from the future or on other continents, and yet they’d still find reason for war and suffer the shortsightedness to not comprehend what is offered to them by being alive in the 21st century. We are not only looking down on a city where we’ll seek refuge for the night and an evening meal; we are doing so because we are curious about a place that stands in great contrast to the desert city we departed from a few weeks ago.

Caroline Wise on the trail on Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Droplets of water fall upon a plant below or maybe hit the dirt, beginning a return journey to the soil and earth below while some small part evaporates into the atmosphere, obscuring the view ahead. Our love is like drops of water falling from within us to nourish the other while some of it evaporates to cloud our eyes with the beauty of seeing and being with one another. No matter what lies ahead, we live in a symbiotic existence of transitioning that binds us together forever, though our paths might diverge from time to time.

View from Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

The clouds, the rain, the amount of dusk that lingered, everything worked in our favor to offer us an exquisite descent from the mountain back down to the city. Watching the glow of warm light as Bergen transitions to evening only added to the romance of being in awe of what the experiences across this Sunday offered us.

View from Mount Floyen in Bergen, Norway

Hunger and gravity pulled us deeper into the city, where we’d be mixing up our routine.

Bergen, Norway

So far, we have made every effort to eat as locally as we could, meaning Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian food, but tonight, we’re taking the advice of the law student from earlier, dined at Villani Italian Restaurant, and ended up regretting nothing. Starting with yet another tartar because it seems everyone has tartar on the menu, we moved on to a burrata and arugula pizza, and while that should have been enough, we’d already ordered a plate of fusilli pesto alla Siciliana with crispy eggplant. Splurging, we shared a small Weck jar-sized portion of tiramisu that cost $13, or the same price as Caroline’s limoncello spritz. Desserts are not cheap in Norway, where sugar apparently costs more than alcohol. Dinner came to 1,444 Norwegian Kroner or about $130. While details regarding common meals tend to feel boring, to be able to look back and remember the time when we thought a particular meal was expensive and ten years later, it seems like a bargain allows this information to take on a point of curiosity.

Scandinavian Wind Down in Bergen, Norway

Nærøyfjord in Gudvangen, Norway

In my Viking dreams, in a Viking room on Viking lands, I hear whispers of Ragnarök. Or maybe it was Ragnarøkkr? It could have been either, considering I cannot really comprehend Old Norse and who drags their dreams out of that world intact anyway. This distinction is important as the former expression is about the end of an age, while the latter refers to the twilight of the gods. I also carry vague memories of Idun trying to introduce me to another god, some deity of raspberries. While Idun was the Goddess of Youth who protected the Apples of Immortality, I think this other god was protecting the Raspberries of Delight, and since we found them growing wild next to the Nærøyfjord, we would continue to travel in delight.

Nærøyfjord in Gudvangen, Norway

The whisps of foggy mist hug the surface of the fjord while filament-like strands stretch and disappear over the trees. A scene one should be so fortunate to see with their own eyes at least twice in their life. Between Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, it is likely this last Scandinavian country that holds the biggest draw, pulling us back for a return visit, or so I want to think while still in Norway. The grandeur of the fjords cannot adequately be depicted by any form of media as the full senses are required to linger in the expanse and massive nature of it all.

Nærøyfjord in Gudvangen, Norway

A couple of days ago, I shared the story of an Australian couple pressing into their 80s on a five-week cruise from New York City to Greenland, Iceland, and Svalbard. Well, it got me thinking about where I am. As we go walking along, here I am at 60 years old, hoofing about 10 miles (16 kilometers) or more a day while we are on vacation, and on occasion, we are not averse to riding bikes between 13 and 20 miles to explore other perspectives of seeing our amazing world. Typically, we are up and going between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. and don’t quit much before 10:30 p.m.. Our stamina is still quite adequate in our view, though, at times, we are not beyond passing out at 9:00 p.m. Compared to my father, who lost his limbs to diabetes in his forties, or my mother, who could no longer push herself to do much of anything after she turned 50, I can appreciate that Caroline and I are trying to wring every bit of adventure out of our lives. On the other hand, Caroline’s parents have done well into their 80s and nearly 90s, aside from her mom’s dementia.

Nærøyfjord in Gudvangen, Norway

I’m keenly aware of our own countdown and want to take full advantage of bodies that remain performant. That old idiom about hindsight and its 20/20 nature has me wanting to tell 20-year-old John to forego everything he thought were absolute necessities, such as nice restaurants, cars, bigger living spaces, and other perceived convenient comforts, and only invest in experiences because, in the end, they hold far more meaning than any car, meal, house, furniture, clothes, or other expressions of who I thought I was demonstrating.

But how would I ever negotiate with a horny young man struggling to find who he was and what he meant to others? Speaking to my still-immature self when I couldn’t comprehend that post-puberty, I traded my passion for learning against the desire for carnal pleasures. I became a slave to vanity. All the while, the engine of commerce, a.k.a. marketing, helped this young man lose focus of who he was while grooming me to want to be the person others would desire.

Gudvangen Fjordtell in Gudvangen, Norway

Opposite our Viking bed on the Viking wall was Viking art in the form of a fjord with a strategically placed mirror reflecting our place of sleep, like the waters outside that reflect the sleeping mountains. Was this themed room, the most expensive lodging option of our entire trip, worth the $332 for the night? Absolutely, because more than an idea, Gudvangen was a waypoint along the scenic path we were traveling. Skipping this village and its expense would have meant we’d have skipped Flåm, too, our 2nd most expensive couple of nights. Add to those costs the train rides, cruise, bike rental, restaurants, and all those pølser, and for the resulting total amount, we could have afforded five or six more days in Stockholm or Oslo. But then, what would we have missed? Can we even put a cost on the wealth that experiences offer us? From my point of view, these are priceless moments and food for the imagination. Without them, we’d be poorer in knowledge and potentialities than the money that had to be sacrificed to gather such things.

Ramsøy Krigsminne (War Memorial) in Gudvangen, Norway

About 80 years ago, some Nazi dickheads set up an armed camp on this vantage point to protect the waterway that allowed travel between the open sea and Gudvangen with its road to Voss and further locations south. Prime Nazi travelway when fighting a World War, I guess.

Ramsøy Krigsminne (War Memorial) in Gudvangen, Norway

The ruins of the bunker just east of our hotel are called Ramsøy Krigsminne (War Memorial). We didn’t spend much time here as we had a bus to catch. Yet another reason to visit again.

Caroline Wise at the bus stop in Gudvangen, Norway

Spending a few weeks in Scandinavia? That is the totality of luggage that we drag around with us, and consider that a large part of the bulk at this time is in the form of yarn while the clothes become more compact the greasier they get. Yep, it’s already been five more days since we were originally going to do laundry, but one has to have priorities, and we are living those.

Road to Voss, Norway

Photo quality is about to dive because though we are in the front seats of the bus on the right of the driver, this is not the best way to capture scenery, not by a long shot.

Road to Voss, Norway

Nærøydalselvi River is there on the right, and we are on our way to Voss, where we’ll have to transfer to another bus.

Nærøydalselvi River on the road to Bergen, Norway

We’ve left Voss, and I was able to capture a half-decent photo of the road ahead with my phone camera. While it looks okay, I know what we lose in quality. But who cares? It helps tell the visual story of our three-hour bus ride south.

Road to Bergen, Norway

Seriously, even with front-row seats on both legs, this was a hard stretch of road to capture decent photos.

Nærøydalselvi River on the road to Bergen, Norway

While I’ve read about the rainy days of Bergen, Norway, by this time in my writing, while we were on our way to the city, we had no idea about the poor state of weather they must endure, but we were starting to get hints that our string of blue sky days might be taking a hit.

Road to Bergen, Norway

It’s starting to look grim, and we’re not all that far away from Bergen at this point. Fingers are crossed that our Wise Charm will go to work in at least offering us a dry city.

Old Town Hall in Bergen, Norway

We landed, and our first stop was not here at the Old Town Hall; we were desperate for an electronics store because the memory card in my camera was approaching capacity. Just how I thought one 256GB card would be enough before leaving the States is a mystery of oversight that was corrected on our way out of the train station. Dragging our bags to the third or fourth floor of a mall wasn’t fun, and only finding 64GB cards felt like a waste of money considering the half-dozen or so of those we have at home, but so it goes, I wasn’t ready to stop taking photos or turning to rely on my phone with its weird HDR like impressions. If the world is cold and gray, it’s okay that images are not candy-colored saturations of silliness that make people happier because things appear better than they might have been. [We had been looking for a memory card for a while now, but rural Norway is not a great place to shop for electronics. The gift store in Flåm had only 8GB cards, which made us and the salesperson laugh. They probably had been sitting there for a while. Caroline]

Bergen Port in Bergen, Norway

Somehow, we snagged a relatively inexpensive room here at the old wharf known as the Bryggen area with a great view overlooking the port. Counting roofs from the right, it’s the third house, this side of the white building.

Caroline Wise at Strikkelykke yarn store in Bergen, Norway

After dumping our bags at the hotel, it was off to the yarn store called Strikkelykke. We needed to be quick about it as this being Saturday, they close at 4:00 p.m., and we’d just arrived at 3:00 p.m. in Bergen. For those who want to know, this is our 8th yarn store in 14 days. Unfortunately, three stores were missed as time wasn’t always in our favor.

Bergen Port in Bergen, Norway

We’ll get this weather report out of the way right now: we will not see the sun while in Bergen, which is absolutely normal as this is one wet city. While I had been looking forward to a couple of down days due to torrential rain, it won’t be as bad as all that. The reason behind my wish for rain is that after a go-go-go amount of travel, it’s nice to shut down a bit in a coffee shop and catch up on writing while Caroline gets busy with the knitting and the two of us are finally face-to-face and can smile at each other instead of always being side-by-side, though the perk there is we get to hold hands.

Bergen Port in Bergen, Norway

Eighty years later, a German Navy is moored in port, part of a peaceful collaboration where neighbors work with one another instead of dominating and murdering.

Wall art at Bergen Port in Bergen, Norway

I’ll notice something while we are here that mirrors other rainy gray cities we’ve visited, and that’s the abundance of murals and other street art.

Bergen Port in Bergen, Norway

This oddly shaped ship called the Aurora Storm is what is known as an offshore supply ship that services oil and gas platforms out on the North Sea.

Wall art in Bergen, Norway

Leave it to the Europeans to point out the obvious that also reflects their tenuous relationship with technology, especially ones that can surveil them.

Stumbling Stone in Bergen, Norway

And just why might Europeans be leery about surveilling people and collecting data on them? Maybe it, in part, relates to the time when Jews were snatched from their homes and sent to die in a concentration camp such as Auschwitz. Stumbling Stones are found in 24 countries across Europe, including Russia, and I think they are a powerful reminder to not let any groups fall under the scrutiny of the state. Rest in peace, Mr. Julius Eidenbom.

Manhole cover in Bergen, Norway

Not a Stumbling Stone.

Moose Stew from Kystvilt in Bergen, Norway

At the Fish Market, we were looking for a bite to eat, something we could share but that wouldn’t interfere with our dinner reservations later in the day. We decided on a food stand called Kystvilt, which was serving up moose and wild deer; we opted for the moose stew. Note the paper bowl and wooden utensils; Scandinavia is taking seriously the need to recycle and cut back on packaging that’s detrimental to the environment. As for the moose, it did not taste like chicken, more like beef, I suppose, though pulling the individual flavor out of the stew wasn’t easy. I’m guessing that moose meat is especially lean and that the ample amount of onions and veggies, along with a judicious amount of fat, went far to make it a lot more savory than it might have otherwise been; add in a dollop of lingonberry and Bob’s your uncle.

Wall art in Bergen, Norway

Walking out of the Fish Market, we encountered several vendors offering whale burgers, but this created a conundrum for us as, yes, our curiosity wanted to know what it’s like, but then we would have to live with the memory, and we would have also added a tiny bit more to the demand for the harvesting of whales. Unable to fully contain ourselves, we tried a smidge of whale sausage that ended up tasting exactly like pork sausage. Street art does not kill whales.

Bergen Cathedral in Bergen, Norway

The Bergen Cathedral was supposed to still be open, but at 5:05 p.m., it was closed as closed gets. If the church had been open, I might have been more surprised as, if nothing else, we should have learned by now that Scandinavian sites have strict opening hours.

Bergen, Norway

Caroline sees that the 9th yarn store is open for another 55 minutes and that we can easily make it over to the main train station, which is right next to where we came into town with the bus but were in a hurry to get that memory card and get to Strikkelykke (I pronounce it Sticky-Licky regardless if it’s correct) due to it closing early on Saturday and fully closed on Sunday.

Wall art in Bergen, Norway

Brightening gray days with an abundance of art are starting to make Bergen feel very progressive, but who knows? Two brief hours in most cities will tell very little about the underlying climate of minds, culture, and attitudes.

Door handle at Leprosy Museum in Bergen, Norway

Passing the Leprosy Museum and saw this door handle that demands we embrace the other’s hand.

John Wise at Norwegian Spirit knitting & yarn in Bergen, Norway

Mixing things up here at the Norwegian Spirit Knitting & Yarn store by having Caroline take my photo with the yarn I’ve chosen for a new pair of socks. Our brief stop at this yarn store was extended after we met Katrine, who was watching the shop. She talked to us about her visits to EuroDisney, Disneyland, Disney Tokyo, and Disneyworld. Part of her study in economics had her in Paris, France, for a year though she doesn’t speak French, yet she’s fluent in Norwegian, English, Italian, and Spanish. Tragically, Caroline wasn’t ready to choose the yarn she wanted, and plans were made to return on Monday, but things got away from us, and instead of fretting about the loss, I’m encouraging her to order that locally-dyed yarn online so there are no regrets. Just do it, Caroline.

Main Train Station in Bergen, Norway

Out of the yarn store and back into the train station because, strangely enough, the shop is near the train tracks. We’ve now been in Bergen for three hours, as you can read on the face of the clock.

Edvard Grieg Statue in Bergen, Norway

Not only do loads of street art abound, but statues are ubiquitous too, such as this one of composer Edvard Grieg, who wrote In the Hall of the Mountain King for the play titled Peer Gynt by another Bergen local named Henrik Ibsen. While you may not know the title, you know the piece; I’m 100% certain you do.

Side note to Caroline, who’ll understand the reference: Grieg canceled his 1899 concerts in France in protest of the Dreyfus affair.

Fossegrim at the foot of the Ole Bull statue in Bergen, Norway

Fossegrim plays the strings for Ole Bull, who is part of the statue above this water spirit. Ole Bull, who the surrounding square is named after was a virtuoso violinist and composer from Bergen. [Fossegrim in Norse mythology is a water spirit that also plays music in an enchanting way. Caroline]

Lying poet by Hans Jacob Meyer in Bergen, Norway

Ole Bull’s Plass or Ole Bull’s Square is also where you’ll find this statue, Lying Poet, by Hans Jacob Meyer.

Henrik Ibsen Statue in Bergen, Norway

This crazy-eyed statue honors Henrik Ibsen, the famous playwright and poet.

Mural of Come and See in Bergen, Norway

This mural will be known by some at first glance, but for those who don’t know the reference, the image is from the amazing 1985 Soviet film Come and See.

Video game mural in Bergen, Norway

Consistent with what I learned during my own time living in Europe, where rain and gray skies prevail, art and culture are the go-to activities that one can do and create indoors when spending time outside in the sun is curtailed by the circumstances of the weather.

Viking statue at the Seamen's Monument in Bergen, Norway

Continuing our meander through town, trying to follow visual cues that would keep our walk interesting, we arrived at the Seamen’s Monument, which was created fairly recently, back in 1950. This Viking is but one of twelve larger sculptures around the monument featuring variations on the theme of seafarers.

Seamen's Monument in Bergen, Norway

Four panels around the top of the monument represent the major eras of Norway’s relationship to the sea.

Ludvig Holberg Statue in Bergen, Norway

Born in Bergen, the writer, essayist, philosopher, historian, and playwright Ludvig Holberg is memorialized here to inspire others to take a page from this creative font. Holberg is known to have traveled to the Netherlands, France, England, and Italy, with Paris, Oxford, and Rome having a great influence on him. While he studied theology at university, he was self-taught in languages, history, and law. The University of Copenhagen used his materials for nearly 200 years for students studying law. As a playwright, his influence came from Parisian comedies and street theater he watched while in Rome. Today, Tiktokers travel the world and grunt approval of mixed drinks, pose in iconic locations during sunset, and offer exuberant endorsements of how amazing the place is, but rarely, if ever, have anything to say, so I doubt we’ll ever see a monument to a TikTok personality/influencer.

Bryggen Hanseatic League area of Bergen, Norway

It was the dreaded Germans and their Hanseatic League monopoly that carved out the historic Bryggen area here in Bergen, which was their protected trade area, but more of that tomorrow when we get a tour of the historic buildings. That these old bits of wooden history still exist seems like an incredible stroke of luck and proper fire prevention measures.

Bryggen Hanseatic League area of Bergen, Norway

With some time to spare before our dinner reservation, we continued to explore the grounds of the Hanseatic League.

Bryggen Hanseatic League area of Bergen, Norway

How many days or weeks would one have to hang out in Bergen to capture the sights on a sunny day? I’d wager that it might be a good long time, considering the 239 days of rain this city gets.

Bergen, Norway

One has to wonder, seeing how America has tried to make everything handicap accessible, how these old European towns can offer much of anything to those who must get around on wheelchairs or walkers. Throughout our visit to Bergen, we’d see firsthand the difficulties for the mobility impaired as elderly Americans disembark cruise ships and become frustrated with cobblestones and stairs.

Bien Basar Restaurant in Bergen, Norway

Time for one of my more anticipated reservations, this one at Bien Basar. In researching where we’d be going and what we should be trying while in Scandinavia, I learned of a traditional dish here in Bergen that originates from right here, Persetorsk. Just as Pinnekjøtt (cured lamb ribs) is a Christmas fav in Oslo, here in Bergen, Persetorsk (pressed cod) is the go-to dish. Lucky for us, I found Bien Basar, which appears to serve Persetorsk year-round for us tourists/travelers who can’t be here during the winter holiday season.

Before dipping into our main course, you must know by now that if a menu features tartar, we are sharing an appetizer of raw beef, and that’s just how this meal started this evening. I felt like it was just too odd for the both of us to have the same dish for dinner, so I opted for the Sei (pollack), which looked intriguing enough while Caroline was going to take possession of the Persetorsk. I regretted my decision right away, not that my dish wasn’t everything I could have hoped for, but the pressed cod and especially the perfectly pureed peas were next-level phenomenal, so much so that I’m certain we’ll return so I can experience an entire Persetorsk all to my self.

Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

This is Rosenkrantz Tower at Bergenhus Fortress. To our great surprise, the grounds were wide open without guards, which left us feeling like we were intruding and that, at any time, someone would show up demanding to know why were here after hours.

Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

This is a tough one to divorce ourselves from as it’s dark, and there is nobody else here. We have become too aware of the fear of the unknown. Things would be fine if we knew that the place would remain quiet and peaceful, but coming from the States, we are conditioned to believe that danger is lurking just around the corner. This is Norway, though, and no junkies are sleeping nearby, nor gang members loitering, waiting for victims to make themselves known.

Bergenhus Fortress in Bergen, Norway

The ambiance to be had here at the fortress is amazing since it’s easy to transport ourselves back in time. However, we were never able to shake the sense that some security person would show up and shoo us away.

Looking across the water from Skuteviken Neighborhood in Bergen, Norway

From the fortress, we continued our walk towards the mouth of the harbor, where we gained this view of another side of Bergen we couldn’t see from the Brygga area. We are in the Skuteviken neighborhood, which will lead us to the Sandviken neighborhood, though there’s a chance it’s one or the other or neither. Where precisely we are doesn’t matter, but we can both assure you that it’s a beautiful area away from the well-trafficked tourist haunts.

Skuteviksveien Street in the Sandviken neighborhood in Bergen, Norway

Walking up Skuteviksveien Street will turn out to be the best path to finish our first night in Bergen.

Sandviken neighborhood of Bergen, Norway

What is here on these dark streets without cars is the sound of voices joined in song wafting out of unseen open windows where a bunch of friends had gotten together for what might have been a small party. It was in Sweden where we first encountered this phenomenon of people singing in groups, which struck us as something incredibly wholesome. Tonight, it doesn’t feel any different.

Sandviken neighborhood of Bergen, Norway

It seems we can’t walk more than 50 meters (150 feet) before hearing another group of people around a corner enthusiastically knocking out a song. Maybe if I consider this as a tradition that became a year-round activity to combat the cold short days of winter and the blues that would accompany that time of the season, it would make sense that something that brings joy should be practiced all the time, but I don’t really know. No matter what drives this shared performance with the neighborhood, it puts smiles on our faces, filling out that part of our grins that aren’t being activated by the architecture that has an incredibly cozy feel.

Steinkjellergaten in the Sandviken neighborhood in Bergen, Norway

Another distinction between “Most Anywhere America” and the quiet streets of Bergen is that when walking by dwellings, the blue glow and corner of a big screen TV is missing here; warm light prevails with that everpresent sound of singing instead of the (to us) more familiar soundtrack of a movie or sports spilling into the environment.

Lindebergsmauet in the Sandviken neighborhood of Bergen, Norway

With a right turn on Lindebergsmauet, we are only two minutes away from our hotel and the end of yet another day of delight; it must have been due to the God of Raspberries.