The
Night Train Back from Bergen – A Story in Three Parts.
Part
II
Bergen
is reportedly one of the rainiest cities in the world with rain 240 days out of
the year. It’s ranked 12th rainiest on a top 25 list. Somehow, I
manage to get one of those 125 rainless days for my visit. To be fair, I had
planned my trip around the ten-day forecast. But, those can’t always be
trusted.
This
year of travel, through some of the other rainiest places (England, Scotland,
Ireland), has been one of unusual sunshine, warmth, and dryness. I’ve been very
lucky with the weather. I’ve also been loaned two different umbrellas (both of
which ended up in the trash after a day with me – which maybe means, don’t loan
me an umbrella) and have a sort of raincoat. Just in case.
At
any rate, the sun is out and the clouds are expressive when I finally arrive to
Bergen (wearing my sort of raincoat).
It’s
nice to be off the train.
First
on my list of places to visit is the Tourist Information Center. I’d read I
could get my funicular ticket there. I plan to get a city map as well.
When
I ask about it, the lady at the desk points out the funicular building through
the window, “You see the Norwegian flag? It’s there.” She says I can buy my
ticket there or here (but with the inflection of tone that implies she’d really
rather I got it at the funicular building) and lets me take a city map.
First
place down. Check.
It’s
a short walk to the funicular building. I meander my way along the harbor,
pausing to take pictures here and there as I go.
I
buy my roundtrip ticket for the funicular and get onboard.
My
older sister and I took a funicular up a mountain in Germany a few years ago.
We sat in the very front with our noses practically pressed up against the
glass. Well, she might have had her nose pressed against the glass, I think I
sat as far back against my seat as I could and clutched a nearby handrail. It had
been surprisingly scary. Of course, I was imagining how it’d be if the train
disconnected from the track and we were sent hurtling to our inevitable deaths,
so you know, there was that.
This
coach is already full when I arrive. I’m not willing to wait another 15 minutes
for the next one in order to get a front row seat, so I find an empty spot in
the last section and sit down. It’s not scary when you can’t see much. But it still
feels pretty vertical. Only briefly do I imagine what it’d be like to hurtle
down unchecked off this track and decide it’d still be terrifying even without
being able to see.
At
the top, I take a load of pictures. There’s Bergen below me. Land and water. Earth
and sky. On the land, the buildings reach to the very end of the terrain as if
to touch the North Sea. Fingers of water reach in to touch the land. There are
the mountains in their individual shapes, some with their toes also reaching
for the North Sea. It’s a back and forth, this reaching of earth to water and
water to earth.
Bergen
is called the “city between the seven mountains.” This is because the Norwegian
playwright Ludvig Holberg (1684-1754) (who is best known for his comedies whose
titles I know not a one) went out and traveled. In his travels to Rome he
became so enchanted by the idea of the Seven Hills of Rome he thought his
birthplace of Bergen should have no less glory than that. There are actually
more than seven mountains surrounding Bergen and it’s often debated which of
all of them are actually the seven of Holberg fame.
Anyway,
I take pictures of a number (maybe seven, maybe more) of Bergenian mountains as
I walk around the top of Mount Fløyen (one of the seven) admiring the views.
In
my wandering, I stumble upon the Trollskogen which I translate as being the
Troll Garden, but which when I look it up later is actually the Troll Forest. At
any translation, the Trollskogen is charming with its carved trolls of all
shapes and sizes. To add to the very Norwegianness of it all, there is even a
carved figure of a Viking, well, just his head. To be honest, I don’t know what
that means.
I
knew of Norwegian Trolls but not
about, so I’d pressed her to tell us.
“Well,
they’re a big part of Norse Mythology,” she said. At her words, Odin, Thor, Yggdrasil,
Loki, the jotnar—the giants of Norse mythology with features like mountains and
fists as big as boulders, and the huldrefolk—much smaller than their trollish
cousins the jotnars and more human-looking but for their tell-tale tails seemed
to holograph in the air before us. “Mostly, in the past generations,” she said,
and the images vanished just as quickly as they’d appeared. “I think they were
used to scare the children into behaving correctly.”
“Did
you use them with your children?” I asked, smiling.
“I
was spanked,” she said, also smiling. “My children had time out. I think it was
several generations back when they needed trolls.”
We
all walked along for a while in silence. There used to be water trolls and mountain
trolls and valley trolls. The trolls were used to protect, frighten, and safeguard.
For instance, the water trolls were used to discourage children from playing in
dangerous water and to explain drownings. As we continued on, I thought about
the power of stories. Maybe we all need trolls, if only just a little.
I
leave the Trollskogen and go to sit at the picnic table on the viewing terrace.
I unpack my lunch and eat with one or two of the seven mountains in my line of
sight.
Then
I take the funicular down. Even though I press in with a bunch of other people
into the front section of the tram, it’s still not very scary because my view
is pretty well blocked by heads and torsos. And, that’s okay.
My next point of interest is Rosenkrantz Tower at the Bergenhus Fortress. This is mainly because of Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, but I’m sure I’m compelled also by some desire to know more of Norwegian history.
To
my initial dismay, the Tower is under construction and completely covered in
scaffolding. I’d read online that it could be scaled (I’m assuming from the
inside) and the adjoining Haakon’s Hall visited. But I’ve arrived too late in
the day to go inside the Tower or the Hall (they close at 3:00 and my train
only got in minutes before that time) but I do manage to wander around in the
outdoor open plaza. The air is crisp, the clouds hover low, the trees are
startling shades of orange and yellow as are the buildings built up the sides
of the mountains.
So,
I carry on.
I
walk by St. Mary’s Church. Also closed. Said to be the oldest existing building
in Bergen and built somewhere between 1130 and 1170. Again, I admire it from
the outside, and again, I’m perfectly content with that.
I
walk on. Past the harbor and through the World Heritage Site of Bryggen.
Bryggen
is a harbor district that was once used by the German Hanseatic League from
1360 to the 1700s for import and export. The original buildings (at least some,
most, or all of them) were burned to the ground when basically all of Bergen
burned in 1702. Then they were rebuilt. Then they burned down again. These
wooden buildings have been burned time after time, even as recently as the
1950s, but each time that happens the city rebuilds using the traditional
patterns and methods. I think about the power of tradition and history. I think
about fire brigades. I think about errant sparks and wood buildings.
As I
walk through the open breezeway along the wooden planks, I am reminded of being
a docent at Old City Park in Texas at the age of nine or ten. Of course, the
buildings there, set along the 13-acre park to recreate a 19th
century village with houses, a doctor’s office, a school, a general store, a
post office, and bank, only dated back to the years between 1840 and 1910, but
still, they were also made of wood. It seems as if I should make more of a
connection here between the two, but this is all I’ve got; a memory. I remember
giving tours of the school house (and getting the dates wrong once during a
tour to my still-to-this-day embarrassment) and the doctor’s office. The walls
of the doctor’s office were painted red so as to hide the evidence of splashed
blood. I remember that.
Keeping
in line with not seeing things in Bergen, I go to the Clarion Collection Hotel.
I’d read online that it’s possible to go up to the tower and see the city from
all sides. Although, I have already seen Bergen from the top of Mount Fløyen,
this seems like it’d be fun and not necessarily on the normal touristy list of
things to do. It’s also free.
The hotel
interior is posh with chandeliers and plush seats. Smoothing down my wind-wild
hair, I make my way to the front desk. I tell the lady at reception what I’m
hoping to do and she says, “I’m sorry. I can’t give you a key.” The key, as I’d
read online, is used to activate the elevator to the top floor.
“Oh.
Okay,” I say, thinking that maybe the hotel has revised their rules to only
allow hotel guests access to the tower. “I’d just read that it was possible to
go up.”
“Normally
it is,” she says. “But the electricity is out. So, the elevator is not
working.”
“How
very inconvenient for you,” I say, suddenly noticing that there are no lights
on in the building. At that, understanding everything, I thank her.
“How
long will you be in Bergen?” she asks.
“There
are stairs,” he says. “But I can’t give you a key. The electricity is out and
the key maker is run by electricity. The tower can only be accessed by key.”
Having
tried my best, I thank him also and go out thinking how tied to electricity and
technology we are. And how things feel fallen apart when they don’t work. And
how, in reality, and luckily, this doesn’t really affect me at all.
I
walk through Bergen Centre past the Henry Ibsen statue in front of the Bergen
Theater, past shops, down streets, past cafés. I contemplate getting a glass of
wine, but I’m not in the mood for that. Not at the moment. So, I keep on. I
pass the Ole Bull statue. Ole Bull was Norway’s famous virtuoso violinist and
composer. He died in 1880, at the age of 70 having lived a full and diverse
life mostly centered around music and the push for Norway’s separation from
Sweden which happened in 1905. He was so famous in his time that his funeral procession
(by ship) was led by 15 steamers and many smaller boats as well. I bet that was
something to have seen.
I’m
not really out for the statues though, I’m wandering around looking for street
art. Bergen, according to a travel site I’d stumbled onto, is the street art
capital of Norway.
This
is in part due to Banksy.
Banksy,
of street art and political activism fame, had come to Bergen in 2000 by
invitation of a man who wanted some distinctive art done for a nightclub he was
opening. For the club, Banksy had done 8 pieces, but then had left his work in a
handful of other places around town as well. Not knowing that Banksy’s work
would become world famous in some years’ time, the city had washed the graffiti
away.
Nevertheless,
perhaps due to that influence or to the fact that there are many talented artists
in Bergen, the street art adds to the beauty of the place rather than detracts.
Some of the art is even city-approved. The artists try to blend the art, the
message, and the environment. They say that street art is art for the people –by
the people.
I find
a few pieces and I’m happy about that.
By
this time, I’ve walked a good many miles. I’ve even climbed up the steps to see
St. John’s Church (also closed) and admired the city from that high perch. Having
done all that I’ve done, I still have three hours before I’ll need to head back
to the train station.
Contemplating
the time and my weary feet, I stop in at a bar with outdoor seating and check
the menu. A small glass of red wine costs $12.00. I’d heard that alcohol in
Norway was expensive. And, sure enough, that’s pretty steep for a small glass. Expense
aside, I’m still not in the mood for wine. Which serves my pocketbook well. But
I do want to sit and be for a while. A coffee would be just the thing. I find a
café with outdoor seating and make myself comfortable. There’s a touch of
coolness in the air, but I have my woolen jumper and my sort of rain jacket on.
I’m plenty warm. From here I can watch the people go by, feel a few dewdrop
samples of the soft and short-lived Bergen drizzle, eat my packed-along dinner,
and bide my time.
Outside
café seating is one of the best things in the world and so I sit there content
and happy until nearly closing time, long after the sun has officially set,
biding my time for the night train’s departure from Bergen back to Nittedal.
To
be continued…
