I am just done with breakfast on the MS Midnatsol (Midnight Sun), this coastal steamer taking us south from Harstad to Trondheim. The breakfasts, oh, the breakfasts. You hear “Norway,” you don’t immediately think “breakfast”—but you should. Four-grain breads and Wasa crispbread, soft-boiled eggs and caviar paste, herring, herring, herring. Also, geitost, a local goat’s cheese that is brown like caramel and sweet like caramel. Mmm. If you are lucky, you can eat it with fresh berries on a Wasa cracker. If you are less lucky, you eat it with jam on a Wasa cracker. Either way, you are plenty lucky.
Arrived in Oslo four days ago. Upon entering Ah Khim Ee-ee’s Oscars gate flat, she said: “Would you like some toast and smoked mackerel? or smoked herring? or smoked cod? or—” I mean, well, “Yes!” Then a walk in Vigeland Park with Mowmy, where a smellicious grilled chicken symphony filled the air, and the Oslo Swing Club danced the evening away.
Oslo is full of surprising things, like the Kon-Tiki Museet—an intriguing tribute to the very blond, very tanned Thor Heyerdahl—the Frammuseet, dedicated to the boat (that would be the Fram) that sailed to both the North and South poles—and the open-air Norsk Folkemuseum, which is a landscape of seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century villages and towns. We entered a 1650 farmhouse and were taken by surprise when dude in costume rose from reading in a dark corner to welcome us. “Are you mad? I am your seventeenth-century farmer.” Then he saw Mowmy’s SLR, and got quite excited talking about his Nikon.
Thursday after a sugar brioche and a bowl of mocha at the Apent Bakeri on Colbjornsensgate, a quick jaunt down Karl Johans for a look-see and then speeding along, luggage in hand, to catch the train to the bus to the plane to Harstad. Funny thing about not finding a place on the map, sometimes it turns out said place is above the Arctic Circle. And me with a bag of summer clothes. Where Oslo was all blue skies and sunny sun and warm skin, Harstad was grey and drizzling and chillywilly. Hands shoved in pockets, walk out on the pier where a curious seagull is a spot of bright white against the shades of grey.
Arrived in Oslo four days ago. Upon entering Ah Khim Ee-ee’s Oscars gate flat, she said: “Would you like some toast and smoked mackerel? or smoked herring? or smoked cod? or—” I mean, well, “Yes!” Then a walk in Vigeland Park with Mowmy, where a smellicious grilled chicken symphony filled the air, and the Oslo Swing Club danced the evening away.
Oslo is full of surprising things, like the Kon-Tiki Museet—an intriguing tribute to the very blond, very tanned Thor Heyerdahl—the Frammuseet, dedicated to the boat (that would be the Fram) that sailed to both the North and South poles—and the open-air Norsk Folkemuseum, which is a landscape of seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century villages and towns. We entered a 1650 farmhouse and were taken by surprise when dude in costume rose from reading in a dark corner to welcome us. “Are you mad? I am your seventeenth-century farmer.” Then he saw Mowmy’s SLR, and got quite excited talking about his Nikon.
Thursday after a sugar brioche and a bowl of mocha at the Apent Bakeri on Colbjornsensgate, a quick jaunt down Karl Johans for a look-see and then speeding along, luggage in hand, to catch the train to the bus to the plane to Harstad. Funny thing about not finding a place on the map, sometimes it turns out said place is above the Arctic Circle. And me with a bag of summer clothes. Where Oslo was all blue skies and sunny sun and warm skin, Harstad was grey and drizzling and chillywilly. Hands shoved in pockets, walk out on the pier where a curious seagull is a spot of bright white against the shades of grey.
Labels: Travel: Norway
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