Leg 1A: Bergen

"I Just Saw 2 Penises"

Wait....

What??

Trembling, Jill falls into her chair at Zachariasbryggen in the heart of downtown Bergen, reeling from a bewildering encounter,

We Just Landed!!!"

8 hours prior to Jill's downstairs mixup the 4.5 ft diameter wheels of Norse Atlantic Airways flight NBT2's Boeing 787 Dreamliner touched down at Oslo Gardermoen Airport.

While the crew deplanes I put the finishing touches on the day's crossword aided by the last remnants of my coffee. As an aside, I find it a sad state of affairs when Norwegian airport coffee is considerably superior to nearly all coffee you get in the states. Thanks Charbucks.

Anyways, just as I'm about to traverse across the terminal to greet our Transatlantic Travelers I receive another text from Shannon,

30 minutes later....

30 minutes later....

30 minutes later....

Unfortunately SAS Airlines was unamenable to my entreaties to wait for us. But the process to rebook was startlingly smooth; when I arrived at the counter I thought it would be anything but. Ascending the escalator to the departures gallery I'm confronted with the typical roiling swarm of humanity that agglomerates at transportation chokepoints in our global economy. Lines snaking, nerves fraying, masses huddling. I wove my way through crowds whose faces have been locked in a state of anguish so thoroughly complete that they've acquired an air of acceptance. I live at this airport now energy is a real buzzkill.

So my disposition is already bleak as I perambulate upon a SAS customer service booth thronged with a horde of frazzled travelers. As I hesitantly approach the scrum my advanced height affords a favorable vantage from which to observe the locus of the collective's attention: a stylized aluminum monolith brandished with the italic uppercase blue SAS logo displaying a Microsoft Surface tablet in the middle stages of a hard reset.

Beside the apparatus stood a SAS customer service representative in a smart, light blue skirt suit with a tight ponytail and strained smile that suggests, don't let this smile distract from the fact that all of you are morons

Just then a Microsoft Windows logo appears amidst a blue digital background. A few seconds later the logo dissolves to reveal a customer service help screen, a lone button labeled "Customer Service" floating atop a sea of light grey that can only be described as Windows 95-esque. Once it's been determined I've waited the requisite amount of time based on my arrival time to the queuemob I press the button and a slip of paper gurgitates from the mouth of the contraption.

B103

I pause for a moment to revel in the absurdity of this moment. Scandinavian Airlines is employing a device to serve as a glorified roll of perforated paper at a deli counter with more computing power than existed on Earth when we put a man on the moon. The society of automated machines whirring about in Kurt Vonnegut's 1952 novel Player Piano in the front sleeve of my backpack feels painfully on-the-nose at this moment.

I press the button, pull a slip and wait about 5 minutes, watching the TV display above the service desk smoothly increment through the upper nineties until it reads B103.

"Hi, I'm on the 3 PM flight to Bergen with 3 friends but they are still stuck in the customs line. We're not going to be able to make our flight, would it be possible to rebook to a later flight?"

I show our reservation details to the representative.

"Ok, there are 4 of you?"

"Yes"

"Ok, you are rebooked on the 4:15 PM flight, is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No... uhhhh... that's it?"

"Yes. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Uhhhh no..... that was... really helpful, thank you so much... tusen takk"

"Vær så god"

20 minutes later my compatriots are finally released from their temporary imprisonment with 2 hours time served under their belt. We share a round of hugs and I commiserate with Jill about the monsters that are Shannon & Michael, notorious plane sleepers who conked out the second the wheels left the tarmac. Jill suffered through the same planesomnia as I, but seems to be in much better spirits than I was when I arrived.

"Where's the SAS check in?"

"Section 3 - I've had plenty of time to wander around the airport while y'all were in the customs line. I'm pretty much an expert on the Oslo Gardermoen domestic departures terminal"

"Ok expert, we have a plane to catch"

"Right this way"

The security checkpoint for domestic flights is guarded by an automated glass gate that swings open when presented with a boarding pass. We present our credentials to the robotic bouncer, plop our bags on the conveyor, and breeze through the metal detector. Not once were we required to show ID during the whole process. Very trusting people, the Scandinavians.

As we're restuffing our belongings into our knapsacks Jill peeks at the big board for our gate number.

"Oh, looks like our original flight was canceled"

Now, I have no reason to question Jill's reading comprehension or airport acumen but I instinctively divert my attention from my entropy reducing activities and wheel around to the same screen that Jill is peering at.

Bergen SAS SK271 15:00 CANCELLED

Satisfied with my own assessment of the situation I pirouette back to Jill,

"Oh wow, yeah it is canceled"

As if she was waiting with bated breath for my affirmation.

There's no way to know for sure but I'm going to believe that the passport control fiasco benefited us. Instead of scrambling for the scraps on the next flight when it was canceled we all got seats in the same row and were able to mosey along to our gate.

That's the thing about travel mercies. They are mysterious.

Bergen

Three hours later our peregrinating posse is rambling through the streets of Bergen, Norway in a rented ruby red Toyota Corolla crossover, unsure of what any of the street signs mean,

"Are we going the wrong way? What do these signs with a red X going through them mean? I feel like this is wrong but the GPS says to go this way... I think?"

After a few questionable but ostensibly legal side alleys in the heart of old Bergen we find ourselves us at our accommodation at last. We drop our bags and trundle down to the city center. We walk past Bryggen (Norwegian for "the dock"), a series of shops, museums, restaurants, and pubs lining the east side of Vågen harbor dating back to the 11th century.

All this traveling has worked up an appetite so we duck into Bryggeriet Gastropub at the southernmost terminus of the harbor. The host leads us to a capacious live-edge wooden table situated against a long leather booth festooned with pelts from unidentified mammals on each seat. At the far end of the table floor-to-ceiling windows facilitate panoramic views of the harbor and the 9 o'clock sun hanging high in the sky.

We begin, naturally, with a round of øl. Shannon opts for the Kjaugutt Amber Ale from 7 Fjell Bryggeri of Bergen, our only local selection. The rest of us choose offerings from Nøgne Ø, a brewery in the small seaside town of Grimstad. Jill settles on the Rygene Lager, described in the menu by what I'm assuming is the effluence spilling forth from a hastily presented google translate query as a "Fantastic, refreshing lager made with a dedication for us".

Finally, the fellas, feelin' rascally, order a couple of 11.5% ABV ham sammiches. Michael, the Three Sheets strong ale, and yours truly opting for the Wegelage spontaneous ale brewed with "Norwegian floor malted barley, wheat, oats, and sweet cherries from Frederiksdal."

And this is where Jill is introduced to the urinal trough, the most efficient expulsion of effluent in civilized society.

Trains Are So Cool

I have been on a few trips with Jill. Jill is a fabulous trip companion. Jill makes spreadsheets of trip plans and activities. We love Jill.

On my first night in Norway I told Big Tom about Jill's predilection for planning over supper on the rooftop,

"I'm meeting Shannon, Jill, and Michael at the airport on Saturday then flying directly to Bergen. We're going to stay that night in Bergen then rent a car to drive out to the fjords - I think we're staying a couple nights in a place called Flåm?"

"Oh yes, I know Flåm - it's wonderful, you're going to love it there."

"Amazing! I didn't plan any of this so I'm just along for the ride."

"If you have time in Bergen you should take the railway, how do you say it in English? It goes up the mountain with the cable"

"Funicular?"

"Yes! The funicular! You should take the funicular, you get great views of the city up on the mountain."

"Oh! I'll add that to the spreadsheet!"

"The spreadsheet?"

"Yeah, our friend Jill made a spreadsheet for the trip with all the plans and ideas. I'm definitely adding that! I love funiculars!"

I love funiculars. What a weirdo.

Anyways, back in Bergen, we settle up at the Gastropub and walk out into the vibrant nighttime sunlight. It's quarter to ten. Around when you might expect evening drowsiness to ensue. But we feel not the least bit somnolent. It's simply too bright for sleep.

"What time does that railroad close? What is it? Fernilinder? Funrickider? Fundickaler?"

"Funicular"

"Fundickular!"

"Close enough"

"Google says it's open till midnight, what do y'all think?"

"Let's do it!"

The Fløibanen, a 2,760 ft funicular railway in the center of Bergen, shepherds over a million passengers a year one thousand feet into the sky. The trains run every half hour and as luck would have it the next car leaves in 3 minutes. Typically this may cause a small degree of anxiety, what with the need to purchase tickets and all, but we're in Scandinavia where the efficiency of transactions knows no rival.

Three taps on a touchscreen kiosk and one tap of my credit card and we're through. Between clicks 2 and 3 I make a quick decision to unilaterally purchase all vouchers for the group - a choice not made out of magnanimity, but out of pure selfishness. The price of a ticket, while not expensive, falls in the grey area of "this seems cool I guess but I don't know if I want to pay that much." As a funicular-head in a group of non-fheads I decide to incur the cost of the collective lest they demur against the inclined railway adventure.

Funiculars are so fun because they typically terminate at an elevated vista with wonderful views but most importantly employ some crafty design and engineering. What's not to love! Funicular railways are characterized by a pair of railway carriages attached to a cable for locomotion. If not for the cable the contact of the steel wheels on the steel track wouldn't generate enough friction to overcome the pull of gravity.

With funiculars the pull of gravity is cleverly used to their advantage - two train cars are attached to each end of a rope that counterbalance each other on their trips up & down the incline. The only power the motor needs to provide is the difference in weight of the two cars (typically the combined weight of the passengers) and various frictional losses in the system.

Atop the train we venture out onto a multi-level promenade overlooking the city. Approaching the precipice of the panoramic vista renders the group speechless. An entire city going about their business down there. Don't they know how beautiful it is up here? I convince myself that Norwegians are the hardest working people on earth. There's no way I could ever bring myself to work in this environment. It's so stunning I'd just waste away, asking passersby can you believe this view??

In our meanderings we happen upon a small building with a sign posted on the side that says "Say hi to the goats" and photos of 10 goats named Pippi, Waldemar, Fløydis, Alex, Frøya, Ferdinand, Stjerna, Gucci, Trym, and, of course, Spot.

Fjord Fordin'

We take our time rousing ourselves after our late night enjoying the midnight sun. Haphazardly packed, we spill onto the streets of Bergen just before checkout time. After a bit of moseying we make our way to Gødt Brød for some breakfast and coffee. Seeing as it's nearly noon our breakfast consists of deli sandwiches hand crafted to order by perhaps the nicest Gen Z'er to ever slap mayonnaise on focaccia.

"Here are your coffees, come back when you finish for a free refill!" Helga (I'm just assuming her name is Helga) cheerily tells us. After Shannon and I slurp down our coffees (Jill and Michael ordered Americanos and thusly were not afforded the free refill perk) I ferry our mugs to the counter for our allotted refills. Upon completion of the second cup Shannon and I get a devious twinkle in our eyes.

"We should go get another refill right?"

While Shannon is waiting in line for our illicit java a middle-aged woman in a plaid rain jacket mistakes Shannon's hap modesty for a hapless American and flags down the barista. "Can you give this American a refill when you finish ringing me up" she presumably says in Norwegian and turns to Shannon with a tight smile Shannon bordering on condescension,

"She will help you with the refill in just a moment"

⬤  ⬤  ⬤

Sated and caffeinated, we splash back to the car in the rain. From all accounts this seems to be the default weather pattern in Bergen, a sitting duck in the middle of a deluge of warm, moist air from the gulf stream. The rain continues for the first two hours of the three hour drive to Flåm, blanketing our view of the fjords.

As we approach the eastern flank of the Sognefjord the rain slowly begins to lift and we catch our first glimpses of the majesty of the fjords.

Our jaws slack agape 'neath steep walled canyons flanking placid emerald wa-

-ters

Rocky outcrops reaching their craggy promontories to the sky

Lush carpets of tr-

-ees as far as the eye can see

Mountain crests covered in moss

Waterfalls tracing magnificent arcs from the tops of cli-

-ffs

Despite our fixed port-side gazes, Jill and I can almost assuredly predict an approaching tunnel - if Shannon lifts her phone to the window to record a video we're inevitably seconds away from a subterranean expedition. No doubt it's Skaði chiding Shannon for attempting to document her majestic kingdom with a pithy phone video.

Sitting dutifully in the driver's seat, Michael is the only occupant looking straight ahead. As he navigates our crimson steed into our final descent we emerge from yet another tunnel into a steep-walled valley that snaps our gaze frontward.

"Hoooooly shit," I exclaim with the sophistication of a distinguished scholar.

"This must be The Valley of the Waterfalls," Jill confidently declares, the only one of us who has done any advanced scouting. With a title perfectly fit for a dust jacket on Reese Witherspoon's book list, The Valley of the Waterfalls paints the picture of the edenic landscape stretched before us. On this drive we've seen valleys and we've seen waterfalls but this is the Platonic ideal of their geologic union.

Before us stretches a wide, verdant plain rolled out like an emerald carpet in the hallway of the gods. On either side towering palisades of anorthositic granite scrape the sky with their serrated edges. Torrents of water, too many to count, throw themselves from the cliffs as if to momentarily experience the feeling of flight. The spray seems to soar towards the earth in slow motion before crashing on the escarpment below.

The wide valley is bisected by the Nærøydalselvi River, collecting the of the waterfalls before escorting it to the Nærøyfjord. (fun fact - the Nærøyfjord was the inspiration for Arendelle in Frozen)

At the terminus of the valley we reach the Gudvangatunnelen, the penultimate tunnel before reaching Flåm. Boring 7 miles through a snarl of precambrian charnockitic gneiss, the Gudvangatunnelen is Norway's third longest road tunnel (the first longest - the Lærdalstunnelen sits just on the other side of Flåm. It also carries the distinction of being the world's longest road tunnel).

Halfway through our subterranean journey the tubular cavern alights with colorful LEDs, washing the inside of the tunnel in a rotating series of bright pinks, purples, blues, and reds. It feels like a dance party might break out at any moment. As Jill later discovers, the lights were installed to break up the monotony of the miles upon miles of gray tunnel walls.

In the process of researching the names & details of this story I stumbled upon an attraction in Google Maps simply titled "Waterfall with bridge." It appears to be a relatively mundane (by Norwegian standards) waterfall equipped with a wooded footbridge over its outfall. With a 4.7 / 5 average rating from 7 the reviews are tepid,

Then Arne Bergsvik, a certified local guide, enters the mix, putting these underwhelmed brats in their place,

If that's all there was I wouldn't have given it any more thought. I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time writing about it. But what caught my attention were a series of "reviews" by a user named Andrea Vianca Gaurano who inexplicably uploaded videos of her playing a video game in which a goat roams around a school called Goatville High (go Razorbucks) gathering points by jumping on top of things.

After some quick research I found these clips are from a video game called Goat Simulator,

Jerry Seinfeld, when talking about how long the process takes to make his coffee in the morning, once remarked "the secret to life is to waste time in ways that you like." If that's the case, then it would appear that Ms. Vianca Gaurano has unlocked the secret to life and is reveling in it.

Speaking of wasting time where were we...

Finally, our red Toyota rumbles from the eastern end of the 3.1 mile Flenjatunnelen above the pastoral fjordtown of Flåm. Outstretched before us lies the southeastern extent of the Sognefjord, our majestic playground for the next 3 days.

Let's play