Chapter XIII

August 02, 2014

Den Haag

The first notification I received on my phone, as I disembarked the plane in Amsterdam, was a text from Telenor, my Norwegian mobile service. They were excited to inform me that there was still coverage in Holland and that they would be happy to continue to serve my mobile needs wherever I wanted to go. It was touching, in much the same a birthday note from the chiropractor is touching except it is not a pun when speaking of mobile service. 

When my trained arrived at the station near the hostel, I walked out confidently and carefully followed the directions they sent me. It was very simple: go out of the exit and turn right. So easy a student can do it without referencing old Geico commercials. Pulling my luggage down the sidewalk and breathing in the distinct Amsterdam air I looked for shelter. The directions specifically say 200 meters, and though I didn't grow up with the metric system, I was relatively sure I had gone more than 200 meters with no hostel in sight. I thought this means one of two things: either I went the wrong way (likely) or the hostel is so tiny that it is not easily spotted form the street (also likely). It also occurred to me that these things were not mutually exclusive. 

Since Telenor had my back, I thought I would call the hostel. I sat on the corner with my luggage and thought how many travel-related words and phrases we have Shakespeare to thank for. By this time I was connected to the hostel and they assured me that though I was in the wrong place I was most certainly in the right place. I tried to explain that yes of course that was true, but could they please help me to get to a righter place. After some holds and transfers I was told that I should go right out of the station for 200 meters. I double-checked to make sure I went the direction of the hand I write. I had. 

I thought there are only four exits to the station, I will just go back and try another exit. Before too long I saw the hostel, it was not small, especially compared with my navigational ability. Checking in and giving them my luggage in exchange for a small slip of paper, I went to my room which I liked. 

Having only a few days I thought I should make the most of them so I took a nap. Then I bought a train ticket to Den Haag. This is a nearby city that has a nice little art collection and is the historical seat of the Dutch government. 

It was on the train ride to Den Haag that I saw fields of tulips, 17th century windmills, and an endless network of canals. These were pretty things. I did not see anyone competitively dyke jumping for which I was disappointed. Nonetheless, it was good to look upon the land of Vermeer, Ruisdael, and Rembrandt. In particular of Vermeer. 

Truly, as the sharp-witted art historian will have pointed out to herself in just the amount of time it takes to finish one paragraph and move to the next, Vermeer was a Delft man not a Den Haag man. This I know, however, it is Den Haag that houses one of his most important works. The museum earlier referred to is the Mauritshuis.

They have just gone through some extensive renovations and I was glad they had opened in time for me to visit. It is a small museum built in the 17th century that was formerly a house. It was converted to a museum in 1822. Th renovation included some underground tunnels which is where one enters these days. So down I went. 

It was small and very crowded for which I was glad. These paintings are worth seeing and I'm glad people know that. They house such masterworks as: Vermeers's Girl With the Pearl Earring, Potter's Bull, and to my surprise van der Weyden's Deposition. It was a small enough collection that I had time to see everything they had with time to revisit certain works before they closed.

Afterwards I wondered around and took some photos of the historic district, visited the sculpture park, and saw a giant cupcake. 

Chapter XII

July 31, 2014

Oslo

Many days and events followed our return to Blindern from Bergen. There were finals to prepare for, books to finish reading, and sometimes laundry to do. There were museums to return to, lakes to dip feet into, and even terrorist threats to deal with. Sculpture parks to spend all night in, long walks back to campus when the trains stopped running, long discussions (mostly cordial) about the genius of Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Lermontov. Going back and forth on the influence of Munch verse Dahl and how much they owe to the Viking period. Scouring the land for the perfect Norwegian sweater. Endlessly tangling with Nietzsche's Dionysian/Apollonian distinctions both in concept and actual life. These things filled the days and nights with content, which at once made the time worth having and made it go by much faster. So with the ending of July came then end of my time in Norway. 

On the last day, I had my final final. It was in a building different to where I attended classes and in order to make sure I would not be late I left early. I found a fellow classmate before I found the building and decided to just follow them and hope for the best. (This did not include clandestinely slinking along in the shadows tailing this poor person, how could you think that.) 

The University of Oslo takes their test-taking practices very seriously and we sat down at widely spaced seats, placed our ID cards in full view, and signed our tests with an assigned anonymous number for fair grading practices. In the student handbook it says that one third of the way through the test the proctors will go around to the students and offer encouragement. I genuinely looked forward to that, but I guess this is one policy that is practiced a little more loosely. In spite of this, I finished in a relatively reasonable amount of time. 

Having finished up with my coursework it was time to gather my belongings together in a compact and customs friendly manner. When I returned to my room, my roommate had already begun the process himself. He had piled all of his things on to the bed and, unfortunately, the pile outsized his one piece of  luggage by at least three times. I can still remember the look on his face when he opened his bag and realized that not only was it three times too small, but it was already full. After some sympathy, I went to lunch. When I returned he had somehow found a way to temporarily suspend the laws of physics and pack everything and I was much impressed. 

That night was a farewell party. It promised to last relatively late into the night. It reminded me of that time three months previously when I was purchasing all my plane tickets for this European excursion. I knew that the party was on Thursday night and would be late. I also knew that housing closed on Friday and that I would need to leave the next day. I also thought (apparently) that this would be a convenient time to torture myself and so I purchased my ticket for an 8AM departure. 

The farewell party began with some ceremonial events. Speeches, slideshows, etc. Which was followed by an (unexpected) rendition of Leaving on a Jet Plane by the staff and faculty. Afterwards we all gathered for party-type refreshments and farewells and other party-type activities. Some of the people there were kind enough to wish me well and hug my head. In return, I wished them well and asked forgiveness for not hugging their heads. 

Leaving the party, I spend one last meaningful night sitting on my favorite bench for awhile and walking to Frogner Park which just dazzles in the nighttime. Though I did not return in time to get one iota of sleep, it was exceedingly worth it and was glad it worked out the way it did. I took one final picture of Blindern in the twilight. 

 The first train left Blindern station at 5:50AM towards Central Station. Lugging my bags with the help of my ever virtuous roommate down to the tracks I made it in plenty of time. I couldn't help but to smile when I heard the (by this time very familiar) automatic voice warn the doors were closing: "dørene lukkes." 

At the airport, the self check-in kiosk told me my bag was too heavy (probably that Norwegian sweater) and that I would be charged a fee. I took it to another window with an agent and asked them to weigh it and this time it was .1 kilograms under the threshold. After that they let me on the plane and I flew to Amsterdam where I would continue to seek art and adventure. 

Chapter XI

July 11-13, 2014

Bergen

-Friday

Friday morning we were scheduled for a historical sightseeing tour of Bergen, which is perhaps the most historical city in Norway. That is an extremely strange thing to say about a city, but it is true in the sense that it was the capital of Norway when Norway had its golden age in the 14th century. Unfortunately, though our tour guide was very good, "historical sightseeing tour" was a slightly less accurate description than "sightseeing tour." Part of the reason, I believe, was that the tour is usually offered by a two part team that includes an art historian. The art historian was unable to be there.

Nonetheless, we made our way around the city looking at all the endearing nooks and crannies; we even visited a tiny community garden. We passed through some charming residential neighborhoods and had a nice look at the city as appears, perhaps, to the local population. The historical parts we did go through were the mandatory Bryggen and the outdoor fish market.

Bryggen perhaps the most iconic part of the city. Though Bryggen existed before the arrival of the Hanseatic League it was they who gradually took over use of the buildings. These were German businessmen who were spread all over Europe in a network of trade. They played an important role in Norway's international trade which is one of the reasons Bergen became of such importance to Norway at the time. Our group crouched and shuffled our way through the famously crooked and narrow passage ways of the buildings which now houses shops, offices, restaurants, and gift stores. They also have a Christmas store.

Our tour ended at, but did not include, a couple of the Medieval structures that I wanted to see. These are Haakon's Hall and Rosenkrantz Tower. They are both part of the Bergenhus Fortress which has been through a thoroughly complicated transitory past. It has been at different times a royal seat, a bishop's seat, a defensive post and has gone through many renovations and alterations. There's a long story in these stones.

Later that evening some of us rode the Fløibanen Funicular (yes, funicular is an English word and fun to say) to the top of one of Bergen's seven mountains. Bergen is famous for being rainy and overcast which means that the view is often hindered by the elements, but it was bright and sunny when we were there and the city lay out beneath us in its own brand of splendor.

Later, after we rode the funicular back down the mountain and had dinner, we experienced Bergen at night. Here's a photo that I can not take the credit for taking of the sunset over the bay.

-Sunday
On our long trek back to Oslo on Sunday we stopped for dinner at a place called Haukelister Fjellstue. This is one of many lodges that are kept and maintained by the DNT which is the Norwegian board for hiking. It is situated on the banks of a fjord and at the foot of some mountains. It was truly one of the most impressive displays of nature that I saw in Norway.

Some of our group even took a dip into the water. It was cold. They screamed.

We finished our return trip with impressive speed because of the skill of our bus driver and because some of the people in our group were interested (violently enthuastic) to watch the World Cup final. When we finally pulled into Blindern it was about 9PM, just enough time to rest and recover for classes the next morning. 

Chapter X

July 9-10, 2014

Bergen

-Wednesday

I suppose that this is as good a time as any to relate what the weather has been like here, especially since it will relate to the story. 

After doing in-depth research (Google) on the average climes of Norway in the summer, I concluded that it would be mildish and packed accordingly. My first week here that proved true for the most part. However, during the second week the temperature increased steadily and by the end of the week it was oppressively warm. At first I thought it was an anomaly, but it has been just as hot ever since. Even the locals have mentioned it as a rare kind of summer. The people who brought swimsuits are happy. Not everyone brought swimsuits. 

This relates because this is the weekend we were going to Bergen on a bus. The bus is Norwegian. Norwegian buses have lackluster air conditioning units. I guess what I'm trying to say is that our bus had a lackluster air conditioning unit. 

The weekend we made our way to Bergen was not a regular weekend, it was our long weekend. A break from the intensive academic workload. So after class on Wednesday we were off until the next Monday. However, those of us who were going to Bergen would be busier than ever over the weekend, for we were leaving right after class at 2PM and we wouldn't be back until late Sunday night. 

That day in class was our mid-term, so it was an afternoon of hurry. Complete the mid-term, get packed, eat lunch, get hair trimmed (optional), make it to the bus on time with everything I would need for four days in the old town. It turns out that I was able to do these things quite efficiently, even the hair trim, and made it to the bus punctually. 

Not sure how many of us went exactly, but it must have been around 80-100, so the bus was at near full capacity. Which, as cool as the students are, did not help the temperature problem. 

One of the first stops was at the Borgund stave church, and about five hours later we arrived. Where Heddal stave church is the biggest surviving stave church, Borgund is the oldest. It is also one of the most well known and has become somewhat iconic for Norway. Though there is a new church in Borgund became much too small for the increasing population, the old remains in use for special services. Again, to see this church was a primary reason for the trip.

It truly is in a rural area, which gives the church a nice atmosphere to exist in. Our tour guide was a young fellow who had long black hair, a scruffy beard and what looked like a heavy-metal t-shirt. In the early nineties there was a spree of arsonists who targeted these old stave churches and some of them were irreparably destroyed. These attacks were carried out by members of the black metal music scene. It is a long complicated story as to why they did this, and I'm happy to share more if you ask me, but I only mention it now because I was very pleased to see that this particular person who has (I assumed) an affiliation with the metal scene had the right appreciation for the stave churches as well. 

A good portion of my art history class were on the trip as well, and they were waxing eloquent about all the things they knew about the stave church already from class. Our professor would have been proud, except for one moment when everything went wrong. In class we had learned that the stave church was dated to 1180 C.E. Knowing this fact was really an important part of Dan's life. In fact he seemed to have used this fact as a foundation for everything else in life he knew. We all need something to rely in if we are going to function in this every changing world of complexity and profundity. Up to this point Dan's life is wonderful, fulfilling, and satisfying in the most complete way. That was all destined to change, however, when our tour guide in an unintended moment of earth-shattering simplicity said, "We date the stave church to 1183 C.E." 

No pain has ever traveled so quickly from the breaking heart to the face as it did for Dan. Contortions of agony transformed him into an unrecognizable vessel of despair. Those of us who knew how important this was for him turned to see the effect this new information would have in cinematic slow-motion. There was silence, but that was only because he was still catching his breath from the impact. Then the scream. The hair-pulling. The tears. 

Of course though this really happened to poor Dan, I admit to taking a few literary liberties with the retelling of the story. It was actually much, much worse. 

Carrying Dan, and once again dragging me and my camera away from this important element of Norwegian architecture, the group made their way back to the bus to continue the journey. Our next stop was our hotel for the evening, where had a dinner and a sleep. 

-Thursday

The next morning we continued towards Bergen. Between us and our destination was a fjord. Instead of going around it or calling for a strong east wind to part the waters, we decided to take the ferry. The views from the fjord are hard to describe even with the help of the camera. We were surrounded by some of the best mountains Norway has to offer. Which in turn means that we were surrounded by some of the best scenes of nature that Norway has to offer. Not to mention the periodic picturesque little port villages that would come into view. 

I am still relatively green to the art of photography, but I snapped away and with the help of a fellow traveler I got what I think to be decent ones. I might add that she was taking better pictures with her smartphone than I was with my DSLR camera, though. Tech is never better than its operator. 

Our next stop is not only another beautiful view, but it was immortalized by the father of Norwegian painting, Johan Christian Dahl, in 1842. 

 After we had lunch here, overlooking the gorge, we returned to the bus once more before finally arriving in Bergen. There is more to tell, and it shall be told. 

Chapter IX

July 6, 2014

Telemark

The next morning I awoke rather early. It was a cool, wet morning. I went outside to see the mountains but they were veiled in fog, their presence was no less evident though. I wandered into the kitchen to see the chef and he gave me a cup of coffee for which I was grateful. Before too long breakfast was served and we were packing up to leave the fairy land. Our next stop was Heddal Stave Church for which I was excited. To see the stave churches was one of the main things I wanted to do in Norway. 

Heddal is the largest surviving stave church in Norway, build in the 13th century it underwent severe (and needed) restoration in the mid-nineteenth century. It is still a fine example of both traditional imagery and post-Reformation changes such as the rosemaling painting on the wall which covered the original Catholic imagery.  '

After me and my camera were dragged away from the stave church back to the bus, we headed for Gaustatoppen. This is the name of a very high and very scenic mountain in Telemark. There were a few sheep roaming the mountainside, their little bells tinkling eerily though the mist. Some of the group thought it would be a good idea to chase the sheep. It is not a good idea to chase the sheep.

 Meanwhile, I (and others) filled our water bottles from a mountain stream. Norway is quite proud of the fact that all their natural water sources are not just potable but downright delicious. I have to admit, it was quite good and honestly, I got to drink water from a mountain stream. I'm pretty happy about that. 

 After this refreshing stop on the mountainside. We had one more place to go, the Vemork museum. This is the site of a power plant dating back to the early twentieth century. The reason it is important is because it was a leading producer of heavy water an essential ingredient to the study and production of nuclear weaponry. When the Nazis invaded Norway in World War II they took control of this plant and began work on their nuclear weapon. In order to stop them, some local Norwegians made a daring attack on the plant. Though it took more than one try, they finally succeeded in destroying the plant as a useful member of the Nazi's nuclear program. Apparently there is a decent film about it as well featuring members of the actual event. 

In order to get to the museum however, one must walk for a few kilometers through the forest. It is a legitimate hike before you finally arrive. This is partly due to the fact that the power plant was in an isolated position and partly due to the fact the Norwegians probably thought why not add a little outdoor adventure to the situation. There is even a zipline over a deep ravine and a rope bridge involved. 

After we heard the exciting story of the heavy water sabotage, we piled back into our bus once again and headed for home.

Chapter VIII

July 5, 2014

Telemark

I typically don't like to stand in lines: the jostling of bodies, awkward pace of progress, and folks who vaguely try to be cordial just to fill the awkwardness (which actually increases it). In fact, standing in line is kind of like being in an elevator for an extended period of time. Nonetheless, every now and then I have no choice and must dust off the old queue skills and shuffle along with everyone else.


One of the things that I did my first week was to do just that. I stood in line for a good long while in order to sign up for a weekend trip to Telemark. Which meant one of the last things I did my first week was to actually go on this trip to Telemark. I was glad I stood in line. 
Bright and early Saturday morning all of us chosen Telemarkers crowded into the dining hall for breakfast and to pack some lunch for the journey. People were in various states of consciousness but managed to complete the necessary tasks and before long we entered the bus and settled in the best we could. 
Our first stop was supposed to be the cobalt mines in Blaafarveverket. The closer we got to our destination the more narrow the roads became, not only narrow, but also steeper and more winding. There were some places in which I was not sure the entire bus was even on the road at the same time, but the driver pressed on with great confidence until at last we arrived at the mine. We all tumbled out of the bus stretching our legs and jaws, but the only trouble was that it was the wrong mine. Without the slightest vexation the driver rumbled further up the mountain on smaller and smaller roadways. We were rather high at this point, my ears were starting to pop and the view from the bus was breathtaking. Stopping once again at another mine location we all piled out of the bus once again stretching, yawning, etc. Unfortunately, this was still the wrong place. So we shuffled back onto the bus. The third stop was the right one, but by now we were a little skeptical. We waited until it was confirmed this time before dismounting. 




















By now we were out in the middle of the mountains and could see for miles around. Our tour guide joined us soon. His name was Thor and lived up to it in almost every way. Before entering the mountain we all donned hard hats and fleece sweaters or capes. My fleece sweater was bright red and designed in such a way so that I could never tell if I was on the outside trying to get in or the inside trying to get out. Perhaps I should have chosen the fleece cape. 
Inside the mountain we were told such things as: the mine was at one time the biggest company in Norway with over 2000 workers, it was founded in 1770 by a Danish king, and it supplied 80% of the world's cobalt at one time. The famous Porsgrund ceramics company in Telemark are noted for their iconic use of cobalt blue in their pieces. After we left the mine, we stopped for lunch. It turned out that while we were there the historic ship MS Henrik Ibsen was going through the Vrangfoss locks in a slow moving nautical drama. 
Pressing ever onward, we headed at last for our overnight lodge in Natadal. This entailed going further and further up the mountain. Many of us were drowsy from the early morning and the long bus rides. The next three hours were mostly slipping in and out of consciousness, though the in consciousness was much better as the scenery was indescribable. As high as we were, the other mountains still towered over us against the backdrop of a theatrical cloudscape. The coniferous trees clustering together on the hillside looked strangely familiar. I had seen them in Dahl's landscapes. 



















When we arrived at our lodge for the evening I was immediately impressed by its charm. The Norwegians take their outdoor life as seriously as they take their national history hearkening back to the humble peasant. The lodge we stayed at was a superb example this. The owners were heavily influenced by Norwegian folk and fairy tales and had designed the place as a fairy tale home. The property actually did have a rather long past. Originally a farm built in the 18th century, the place had gone through various ownership until purchased by the current owners about forty years ago. Leaving the original buildings as untouched as possible they expanded the property adding their own mythological brand. It was quite a special place. 






































When we first arrived I trotted off to see what adventures I could find in this bemagicked wilderness. One of the first things I found was Myraekra.






















You might ask "what is myraekra?" and that would be a good question. In fact, I'm still wondering the very same thing myself. Probably a troll's home.

After trekking through the countryside for awhile I heard a bell ringing in the distance and I thought it must be time to eat. Surely people only ring bells if they have food to offer, I thought. Sure enough, upon my return we were treated with a homegrown meal that really did reach the upper levels of culinary expression. We had our meal in a highly decorated barn. It was a nice barn.

I should note that a typical Norwegian farm will have lots of various buildings for different purposes. This was no different. The building I stayed in retained some of its historicity and was heavily decorated with paintings, tapestries, ceramics, and shelves of books.























In the evening it got a little cooler and I thought I would go for a walk. Dark clouds were on the horizon so I grabbed one of the complimentary umbrellas and wandered off. It did start to rain and so without too much ado I opened my umbrella. Unfortunately, I must have opened it with a little too much aplomb and half of the canvas flew right off of the frame. Which meant I had to choose between protecting myself or my camera. Naturally I chose the camera.

We spent the night in the lodge and continued our adventure the next day, much like I will continue this story in the next chapter.

Chapter VII

July 4, 2014

Oslo

I am approaching my last week here in Oslo and I have hardly written about more than my first week here. This is in part due to all the things that happen and how consistently interesting things are, but also because I can just get downright garrulous at times. Consequently, I will be zooming forward a bit. 

Independence and national pride are an ever present theme here. This is partly due to the fact that the study of Norwegian art is very often a study of Norway's struggle for independence and their efforts to forge a strong national identity. However, it is especially strong this year since it is the bicentennial of Norway's constitution. In 1814 Norway ended their subservient relationship with Denmark and became the third country to adopt a constitution after the USA and France. A good many of the museums that I have been frequenting have devoted some gallery space to the celebration of these events. 

These ideas are given even more life by the Independence Day party that Oslo hosted for Americans on June 29th in Frogner Park. I had forgotten which day it was and I just happened to be in Frogner Park documenting the sculptures when I was gently reminded by the American rock band that started jamming to the entire park. Going over to investigate I found a little slice of America complete with hot dogs, muscle cars, and a Coldplay cover band. Some of the Norwegian security guards even fitted themselves out with cowboy hats and sheriff badges. I suppose they thought this was the American equivalent of a bunad. In the end, they might be right. 

Of course just a few days later the Canadian population here at the school had their own national holiday on July 1st. They took it very seriously and had a lively celebration and sang O Canada very enthusiastically from the (literal) rooftops all the day long. They were very happy and shared many interesting anecdotes of what it is like to live in Canada for which I thank them. So when the American Independence Day did arrive it was not without some festive precedent.

So what is it like to be an American abroad on Independence Day? Though I had originally written out some theories on the importance of holidays and their function in society; I don't think that's the right approach to answer the question. Instead I will simply say that because of the celebratory traditions that I grew up with and because I believe in the importance of holidays I missed being a participant this year. Being abroad was less significant than being away from those with whom I would normally celebrate: my family.