Ice Hotel and the Night Train Back from Bergen Part III

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

Part III

In the north of Norway is an ice hotel. My host has been there. She slept on ice. Well, ice covered by a slab of wood and a nice warm blanket of some kind. But still. When I look it up, I discover that the experience would be quite expensive. This particular hotel, the Snowhotel, is in the extreme northeastern part of Norway and getting there would be a thing in itself. Then add on to that the cost of the night on ice and whew, that’d blow my budget to the aurora borealis.

But it sounds amazing.

To both my disappointment and (financial) peace of mind, I also discover that the hotel doesn’t usually open until mid-December. By then, sadly, I’ll be gone. Maybe that’s for the best.

As I’m wandering around Bergen with a couple hours still before my train leaves, I look over my list and see what else I can do. It’s nearly 9:00 P.M. It’s dark. Under the twinkling lights, I stand at the harbor and look across the way toward the Clarion Hotel. The tower glows with white promise. Their electricity is back on. I bet the city looks pretty nice from up there in the dark. Imagining a magical experience, I make my way once again to the hotel.

Inside, the receptionist tells me that although the electricity is back on, the keycard machine is still out of order. Of course, a key is needed to open the door that leads onto the tower. As I make my way outside again, I reflect that three times isn’t always a charm. Here’s another thing, like the Snowhotel, that wasn’t meant to be. Still, you can’t say I didn’t try.

The last thing on my list is the Magic Ice Bar.

It’s on the other side of the harbor and probably a fifteen minute walk. I check the time, I’ve still got plenty left. I head around the head of the water and go south.

The streets are dark. The way is long. A few solitary people pass me as I slowly meander along.

Eventually, I make it. From the outside Magic Ice looks pretty unimpressive. When I try it, the door feels locked. Well, there you have it. As I step away, a man materializes out of the shadows. “It’s not locked, it just needs a big pull,” he says. He gives it a good pull and the door opens. Inside the expansive and bright lobby, he goes around the back of the front desk and waits for me.

After a quick glance around, I go stand near the edge of the desk and look over at the prices posted on the wall. I ask some question and the man explains, “The cost is for the entry. It includes one of our specially prepared Norwegian drinks made with crowberries and white wine, or you can get a non-alcoholic version if you prefer. Inside, the whole room is made of ice. The wall decorations have been specially carved by artists with the work of Gustav Klimt. Where are you from?”

“Texas,” I say, it’s the easiest answer.

“The room is kept at 15 degrees Fahrenheit.” Ah, I think, that’s why he asked. He wanted to know if I dealt in Fahrenheit or Celsius. “We give you a warm poncho and gloves.”

At this point, two men come inside. (Apparently, they had no trouble pulling the outside door open.) They look to be tourists as well. They eye the sign with the prices. I step aside so that I can think for a minute and let the man try and get more business.

Glancing down at my phone, I run the cost in Norwegian krona to dollars on the currency exchange app I have there. The entry is roughly $25.00. Rather steep for me, but I’m sold with Gustav Klimt.

I studied some art history in college. Gustav Klimt wasn’t ever my favorite artist, but I liked him well enough. He’s known for his highly decorative style—he used gold leaf and copper on many paintings—and for eroticism. My sister and I had opted out of the chance to see The Kiss in a museum when we were in Austria (Klimt was born in Austria) for a number of good reasons one of which was that we’d decided not to pay for any museums in Austria. This was not a protest against Austrian museums but rather one of our ways to make each city we visited a truly different experience from all the others. To be honest, I’ve never regretted that, but nevertheless, I feel as if I should give Klimt a chance at some point.

Meanwhile, the two men decide against the experience and I decide on it.

I pay my money and the man takes a thick black poncho off a rack of other thick black ponchos. He settles it over my shoulders and secures it in the front for me. He hands me a pair of gloves, a laminated drink voucher, and gives me the go ahead. I open the first door and step into the small foyer separating warm from cold. And then I go through the second door.

The room emanates an icy blue. A block of ice stands just before me with a figure of a naked woman etched inside like some kind of inverted version of Han Solo frozen in carbonite or a cryogenically frozen ghost. The air is crisp and wonderful. Everything does seem to be made of ice. The walls, the seats, the tables, the artwork, the bar itself. Well, everything except for the floors and the ceiling. I spin around, mesmerized. Thrilled.

In a side room, among the Klimt, there’s even an ice etching of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I know why that’s here, for Edvard Munch was Norwegian.

Making my way further inward, I ask a lady if she’ll take my photo sitting on the ice throne. She does and then she asks, “Do you want a picture here too?” Here is the open circle in a wall of ice that from the other side looks like a canvas. On that other side, an icy figure (presumably Gustav Klimt) stands painting. I get up on the step ladder and the lady takes a handful of shots of me.

Then I wander some more. There is The Kiss in ice. It’s almost like seeing the real thing. Well, with a lot less gold leaf.

After taking some pictures and admiring the art, I get my included drink. The bartender serves it in a glass with an inner ice insert in which my drink is poured. My drink is quite literally on ice, in ice. “Don’t set your drink down on the tables,” she says. “Otherwise it’ll fall and break.”

The tables have little squares of rubber on them in case I do desire to set my glass down at some point, but I’m careful when I do. I go find an ice bench covered in some kind of (maybe faux, maybe not?) animal skin and think, This is almost like being in the Ice Hotel! Maybe even better.

It all feels very Norwegian somehow, all this ice.

The lights shift from blue to purple and then back to blue.

As I sip my drink, I check the time. I can’t stay forever. I have a train to catch. But I stay as long as I can in the cold.

After a little bit longer, I wave goodbye to the bartender and head out. The man behind the reception desk comes around and helps me off with the poncho.

“How was it?” he asks.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” I say, truly wishing I could have.

“Twenty minutes is about the usual time people spend inside,” he says, not quite understanding me, but that’s okay.

Pushing against the hard to open door, and glad I came, I head into the night, exhilarated, and walk the mile back to the train station.

*I realize I’ve titled this three-part blog The Night Train Back from Bergen which is a little misleading since I’m basically leaving the story at the end of the Magic Ice Bar. I will say that on the night train I had a fantastic seat (no more feeling out of place or being obliged to move) and was sad that it was dark since I had such a good window. I slept in jolting bursts that were not restful. I saw the sunrise and made it home again after my 25 hour excursion. After switching trains in Oslo and getting back to Nittedal, I walked home from the station, climbed into bed, and went promptly to sleep.