The Night Train Back from Bergen – A Story in Three Parts.

The Night Train Back from Bergen – A Story in Three Parts.

Part I

A lady is sitting in my designated seat: Wagon 6, Seat 4 Window. First, I double check my ticket and the seat markings on the aisle then I lean in a little, hold my ticket out, and say half-heartedly, “I think,” and then I stop. She glances at me, pausing from her conversation with the couple across from her and then pretends she doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why I’d say anything.

It’s early morning. I’m not in the mood for a conversation yet; especially not one about seat ownership. Besides, there are still many open seats. So, I take one across the aisle. Then I change to the seat facing the one I’d just been in. I’m not sure how set in stone the assigned seats are. But, my original seat and the first selected seat I’d taken face backwards. I’d rather sit facing the direction the train will be going.

Before we get underway, a couple come into the coach. “I think,” the woman says to me, pointing to where I am. “These are our seats.” She checks her ticket, checks the aisle marking, but I’ve already moved back to the seat that faces them. They settle in. I settle in.

The train begins to move at exactly 8:25.

I’m on my way to Bergen.

It’s supposed to be one of the most beautiful train routes in Norway. Covering approximately 280 or so miles, the train ride will give me the chance to see a lot of the countryside. If I can sit by the window. If I can see out.

As we go, I glance at the coach. Facing it as I am, I’m in a good position to see it all. Everyone is in a seat. Behind the couple (who I’m trying hard not to stare at since they’re directly opposite me) are two open seats. Thinking, “Nothing personal,” at the couple, I switch. Now I’m facing the way I want to face. The window is fantastic. I breathe.

When the ticket inspector comes by, she takes my ticket and stamps it. Then she looks at the seat markings and says, “Wagon 6, seat 4,” but in Norwegian. I give her a slightly (it’s still early in the morning) apologetic look. While she, with a stern face, looks back over her shoulder at seat 4 and sees it’s been taken, gives a nearly imperceptible shrug, and lets me stay where I am.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is rising and the sky is clear. It’s a 6 and 1/2 hour trip to Bergen.

We haven’t made it far when another couple comes in from another coach with their backpacks on. I’m so absorbed in the view that at first I’m as un-understanding as the woman in my seat had been when I’d first leaned in to try and talk seats with her.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I think these are our seats.”

I make some sort of apology and then try to see if they’ll go for sitting in the two empty seats behind us, knowing that this seat I’m in (their seat) has a better window, knowing I’m unfair to try and get the best when it’s not rightfully mine.

“We would,” the woman says. “But the ticket inspector just made us move from the other coach. We didn’t even know we were in the wrong place. And I would hate for her to tell us we were in the wrong place again.” I understand her worry. It’s no fun being reprimanded by a stern ticket master. There’s security in being in your proper seat.

She says something else rather apologetic and I (rather ungraciously, but not rudely) say, “They are your seats.” Once again, I get up. The seat behind them isn’t bad. But the window is half of what I’d just had.

“Just because you had to get up early. Just because you haven’t had your coffee yet. Just because you don’t really want your own assigned seat doesn’t mean you get to be crabby. This is still a great adventure. You still have a window seat. You are still going to see the beauty of Norway.” Thoughts of these nature run in rapid succession through my mind. I wish, not for the first time recently, that I was less susceptible to lack of sleep. It feels like a rather new and not very welcome development in my life. Maybe it’s a side-effect of being middle-aged. Middle-age is kind of a joke. I mean, technically I am. But I’d never before thought of the term middle-aged in regards to myself until I read a book where the author described a 41-year-old character as a middle-aged woman, and I realized (even though I’d still been only 39 at the time), “Good grief. I’m almost middle-aged! Ha!” So, every now and again, I tell myself that I am middle-aged because I find the reminder amusing. (Ha!) Age seems so real and impossible at the same time.

What does it even mean to be a certain age? It’s one of those surprisingly hilarious existential questions.

Anyway, middle-aged or not, I want to be easily adaptable, to be filled with excitement even if fatigued. I want to be nice to all people, all the time. But the reality is, sometimes I’m also tired. Sometimes, when I’m tired, it’s better for me to sit quietly, alone. Sometimes, I’m just not in the mood to socialize. What does it even mean to be human?

When breakfast time rolls around (I’ve packed mine in along with my lunch and dinner), I’m almost afraid to abandon my stolen seat to go to the dining car to get a coffee. I’m worried the proper owners of this current row I’m calling “mine” will arrive and take over and once again I’ll be The (Middle-Aged) Person Without a Seat.

“That’s silly,” I say to myself in my mind. So, I leave my jacket and my snacks on the seat and go get my coffee.

 

Breakfast is a nice little affair.

It crosses my mind as we pass pretty little townships, stopping occasionally at stations to let passengers on and off (each time I hold my breath, wondering if I’ll have to move again), that I should have asked the woman in my seat what her original seat was—that way, if pressed, I could go take it (if it wasn’t even worse than my own original one which I don’t actually want except for the security it offers of proper ownership). I’m not against Tradesies if it benefits both parties.

We pass farmlands and sheep. We pass mountains that remind me of Colorado, of Wyoming, of Oregon, of Vermont, of everywhere. The world is all the same. The world is all so different.

We go through valleys and then we ascend. Always ascending. Ever ascending. 

It’s too bad that trains like this don’t have an upper deck like the double decker buses in London.

It’s too bad the walls aren’t one big giant expanse of window. I’m sure there are very good reasons that they aren’t. For instance, tunnels. Double decker trains wouldn’t fit in the tunnels. And the glass would probably be bad for insulation, sun glare, etcetera. But still, I’m thinking about my desire to see it all, all at the same time as we pass green fields with autumn-changed tree-covered hills behind them. As we pass lakes whose surfaces reflect the colorful trees and the blue, blue sky. As we go through a patch of cloud that filters the surroundings with a soft, filmy haze which give an overall magical and unreal effect. Then we’re back under clear skies as if the magic never was. I glance backwards to see the low blanket of cloud. The magic is still there, the magic was real. I smile.

We pass through barren faced cliffs with roiling rivers at their far beneath and water-hidden feet. Are these fjords? I don’t really know.

We pass sparse mountains with grey rocks, unadorned trees, and scrubby overgrowth. The mountains have snow at their peaks. Here, already it’s winter. The collections of scattered buildings look like old west ghost towns in their seeming neglect and isolation. This is the wasteland, the desert, the alone-scape. I’d like to get out and stay in this place for a while.

We pass an un-snowed ski slope and a fancy, glass-faced ski resort.

We pass tremendous waterfalls which spill down slate-grey mountain faces and slide into the waiting water below. The boy whose name is Jay because his father repeatedly uses it to tell him to sit still, to come back to his seat, to keep his voice down, says, “Wow!” when we pass a particularly spectacular fall. Wow, I also think in exclamation.

Still, we go even higher. As we reach each station the sign tells the altitude. For instance: Myrdal 866.8 m.o.h. Although sleep deprived, and with the help of my phone’s calculator, I convert the numbers from meters to feet. We go as high as 4200 feet.

I smile. I’ve been higher than that before. For, life is one of contrast and comparison. My finite mind is keeping track of silly things. 

We pass through a million tunnels.

We pass fjords. Surely, that’s a fjord. Surely, that is too.

And as we go, I still feel that at any moment I’ll have to move. As I look first this way then that, I sometimes feel I’m on the wrong side of the train. Should I look through my window or across the aisle through that one there? I feel there are too many tunnels disrupting the view.

It’s maybe too much beauty to take in over the course of one day.

Maybe the destination is the journey and not the journey. That’s how it goes, right?

At some point, the couple in front of me collect their backpacks from the overhead rack and leave.

When I’m sure they’re gone (and not just in the dining car for lunch), I began to shuffle my things together. Somehow in this what-should-be-an-easy process, my bag slips off the seat and my water bottle and my camera tumble out of it and onto the floor. As I’m scrambling around in complete disorganization, the man across the aisle collects my bag and hands it over. Feeling ridiculous, clumsy, and un-assigned, I put my things back in and tell him thank you. Then, clutching my jacket, my bag, and my snacks, I switch once again to the seat with the best window. After all, there are still a couple hours left to go.

At Myrdal, the majority of passengers disembark, including the people who had taken their good window seat from me so early on, including the man who handed me my bag off the floor, including the woman who had taken my original seat.

Now there are so many seat options I hardly know what to do.

So, of course, (obviously never content), I move to the opposite side of the train; like a molecule in perpetual motion, I move yet again.

At this point, I decide enough is enough. I’ll stay here until the ride is over. So, I do.

Only once, with one hour left to go, am I challenged on this when a woman gets on and after checking the seat marking against her ticket says I have her seat. I start to collect my things and then she says, “It’s okay. I’ll take another.”

“If anyone says anything,” I say to her, thinking of stern ticket masters, “I’ll move.” After all, I have plenty of experience. By this time, I don’t mind. After all, I’ve sat just about everywhere in this coach except in my own, proper place. Also, I don’t feel bad about having her seat. She still gets a good window where she is. And, besides, she reads a magazine the whole rest of the ride.

To be continued…