Wednesday, December 3, 2008

In the afternoon,.......

I stopped along the path to observe a male blackbird rummaging for his lunch under the frosted brown leaves that coat the earth. He snatched and threw them over his bird-shoulders, occasionally having to drag a larger, frozen clump away from his buried booty of wintering worms and insects. After each muscled throw of debris, he looked up at me. Without knowing better, I would have thought he were trying to impress me with such a display of brutish bird strength. ('Behold, poor human, the many leaves my mighty beak displaces! And do you have a bright orange beak? I think not!')
Of course, I am aware of my own dubiousness in the eyes of smaller creatures- even hearty blackbirds- even the predators of predators of hearty blackbirds. He was only keeping a wary, orange-encircled eye on me.
Now I sit on the marble base of an impressive metal statue featuring a robust male deer. He stands assertively on a kind of knoll between divergent roads amid the beech and rhododendrons. The cold stone stings my gluts to numbness, but the feeling of being watched over by an alert buck is a pleasant irony.
Having caught my fill of glinting sunlight, I slip along down the path of frozen leaf pulp to a certain artisan's shop where Santa follows vicariously.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Digging up the new roots...

"Are you for sure not coming back after Christmas," asks Ursula with rolled R's. She is Austrian, but the papers are Italian. Italy claimed a section of Austria in the beginning of the last century.
People are leaving Bergen. Ursula's contract is finished, as is Nicholai's.
But, others are here permanently. It seems like an early uprooting (for everyone), but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Ursula plays the violin, is 32, and has been moving around-working temporary positions and gigging since she was 23. Though she claims to "have nothing in life", she can turn a room upside down with laughter and overwhelm Ingrid Bergman's beauty any day. I hope to see her again sometime.

During the last few weeks, cordiality's chrysalis has been shed. A flock of freshly-winged friends flutter socially about. Polite dinner parties have become late evenings after the concert- sitting with wine or soup on the bed, which is Nicholai's and my only accommodating piece of furniture. I made a wreath last week to add a fresh scent to the entryway and elevate everyone's spirit with holiday hints. The mountain has plenty of kindly-needled firs. Our door is metallic, so the wreath is sneakily hung from the inside wall to dangle surprisingly in the air when the door has been opened. As guests depart they are informed that a glance from the inescapable hoop spells a long, happy life. Not living a long, happy life after getting into the hallway is, therefore, near impossible.
When I am home for Christmas we will dig up the young roots of our tree. For a while it will be inside, which doesn't suit trees so much, but afterwards it can continue to grow anew on the property. For people, I think that the roots are the others they bring into their lives. The loved ones. Family or friend. And it makes for a lush life when your friends are just around the corner or just that many more.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Bergen's Ancient Wharf and more....

Greetings, fellow Bottom-dwellers!
This cafe feels like it could be nestled in a tree far from the forest floor.
A single room of pine walls, floor, and ceiling with century-old ragged pine rafters to support its slanting structure. Bryggen is an over-underworld of planked alleyways and staircases in a hive of ancient housing built to accommodate the lives and goods of sea-traders.
The city of Bergen was founded in 1070 by a certain King Olav Kyrre. Bryggen, as the city's largest wharf and trading center, was the best-established area of Bergen during medieval times. By the 13th Century, Bergen was trading with many countries, but the black plague entered through its port in 1349 and annihilated most of the city's population. Half of Norway's population was wiped out. About a decade after this, a Hanseatic trading office was established in Bryggen's wharf. For the next three-hundred years, Bryggen life flowed to the rhythm of Hanseatic culture. Norway exported fish. Ships imported grains and textiles. After a fire in 1702, which destroyed the entire city, Bryggen was once again reconstructed. What I walk through today is all that is left of Bryggen and also of Hanseatic trade housing.
The trade offices, storage spaces, and boarding rooms from this archaic period have all been recycled into airy shops of handmade luxury items, pub-cafes, and a few discreet offices tucked away on some tilting third floor.
Having been brought up in a completely different context, this landscape of invincible heart wood, bare and weather-worn, through the open-air walkways of the second and third stories, reminds me of a tree house neighborhood.
























To others of a saltier imagination, it could very well lend itself to revelry in the sea and sailor-beaten surfaces of an old wooden ship.
The gently restored cabin which hosts the cafe has been perfect for such an afternoon escape. Cars, Concrete, and city sounds are nonexistent in this harvested forest. Bryggen is an island of wood in a sea of cobbled and paved routes. The barista is wearing black, boot-shaped slippers. I, too, would wear slippers if wide, creaky boards lived under my feet as I moved through the day.



Back at the apartment crows appear outside of the windows, positioning themselves to be flung by the lofty gusts of wind at exactly sun-down. 3:54. The trees near the middle of the mountain seem to be a favorite landing spot. A pit-stop on the flight back to their roosts. Of course, we know that birds never make that kind of pit-stop. Otherwise, they might have a better reputation. There are no nests in the branches of these bare trees, but at this time of day the topmost twigs and branch-tips are weighted by dozens upon dozens of the vigilant scavengers. It is a coup d'air





Grieg Hall before the concert.
Perfumes and pressed clothes.
Showered people
Programs and polite laughter.
Greying hair
Coffee or wine.
Comfortability. 
Mild excitement.
Glancing men
Automated chimes.
Minds gathered to be carried elsewhere.
Unexplored thoughts to be temporarily visited.
Traditions to honor.
Images to maintain.
Ideals to uphold.
Monotony to break.
Generations to impress.
Loved ones to support.
So many reasons and whims for an audience to attend to
Mozart and Brahms.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Observations on a mountain walk and at the kitchen table.



Fireweeds of Autumn are no longer bright purple and pink. They stand solemnly with white curled hair. Seeds for next year. Fallen beech leaves on the flat sides of rain-slicked boulders spell out the philosophy of Autumn. Detachment. A necessary willingness to end. Freshness with each Spring's luminous new set of unfurling leaf-buds is only possible through the voluntary release of the previous year's leaves. Insects forfeit their lives at this "fall" bend in the cycle to ensure that the next generation may also make the same loop. I make the meandering loop up and down the mountain, descending just as my hands begin to tingle uncomfortably with cold. Glad to weather another approaching Winter.


Back at home, I sit at the table and wonder who I should be and what that person would be doing at this second. The old adage "Be True to Yourself" floats into my head wearily. Like an old clown. The clown seems still to carry some secret. I try and cipher its magic.
To be "true to one's self" is a quite popular directive meant to reassure people that they can choose to do what they feel compelled to -be who they feel compelled to be. Many of us, myself included, find it difficult not to be very "thoughty". If our thoughts aren't always repetitive- in a closed loop- new ideas often join the slideshow and shake us, skew the menagerie, but at the same time renew us. These new experiences and their "aftermath" can be comforting or traumatic, but we need it all to grow. Actually, we need it to be alive.
Being alive (which, in my opinion, doesn't mean sitting on a pillow with eyes shut) is all bonding and reacting. With every impression, there is a reaction. With every reaction, we live.
To be true to oneself isn't to be true to a single idea (of oneself) but to be true to a real, living self; a self whose image isn't the main concern and whose entire being is available and honest for the world. A living self is one with mental and emotional reactions taking place. 
It can be tricky when one's ideas of who his or her "real" self has proven to be in the past battle for the present title. However, being true to an idea of oneself- is different than being true to oneself.
This is why being one's "true self" is being aware of one's present surroundings, senses, and peers so that we can bond and react. When we react to what is going on around us, however we feel compelled to (without checking with some computerized hardware conception of ourselves) we reveal the self. So, self and thought should not be confused. Self is awareness, and in being true to that, all we can do is react.


Makes sense, I think.
With that, I see that this table needs tidying and feel that it is time for lunch. 
Enjoy yourselves!!!

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Doing some drawings of late

Hello dear readersThis entry I ask that you quench the thirst for words with images. I sunk into a pleasant pattern of scratching some staedtlers across a pad this week. Here is some of what I came up with. The link is to one of the drawings which I submitted for a T-shirt contest. Thank you, Phil Puleo for your technical genius. Everyone please cross your little piggies.

Monday, November 3, 2008

A cat to spare and pre-concert scribble.



Today, cats rule the hill. Below my bench I emptied a cup of leftover pasta. I figured that some crows would discover it sometime that afternoon. Only a moment later, however, did a young tabbycat cross the leaf-carpetted street, following her nose to the clump of tomatoey noodles. They did not seem to suit her, though. Immediately after devouring one by my foot, she turned to the neighboring grass and nipped off a few of the most accessible vomit-inducing blades. I didn't think that batch of pasta was especially good either. Whole wheat is always too dense.
This all occurred without any personal acknowledgment from the cat until, like anyone trying to catch a skulking feline's attention, I hissed gently through my teeth. She froze, beaming the yellow lanterns of her gaze at me before swiftly jumping into my lap. 
The unexpected visitor enjoyed my puffy coat's warmth, cushioning, and concealment. Whenever a sniffing dog was ushered round the bend and down the road just in front of us, she shrunk lower into the space between my protective embrace and behind the blind of my crossed legs. 
I tried to write, but she attacked my pen and paper. She even tried to sneak a sip of my coffee. So I gave in to being an attentive massage-chair for the time-being.
Cats seem to live strictly from one sound to the next. And most sounds, judging by the way a cat's emotions pique from them, are heard as fate's knocking or the clattering of apocalyptic hooves. The wind blowing dead leaves around was treated as a serious omen for my candid cat friend. And the people rolling suitcases down the street or slamming their doors could all have been conspiring with the devil. A whole neighborhood of evil noises-makers. A large tree-trunk (which must also have created some type of disquietude-you'd think) was spontaneously attacked with a leaping assault of unsheathed claws. 'Shut up, you sinister tree!... or I will cut you down one scratch at a time!'

When the most fearsome canine was spotted zig-zagging his way up the hill with his obese keeper in tow, my accessory ran to the middle of the street some thirty feet ahead and crouched provokingly in full view. Are all animals with alpha-attitudes born under the assumption that they are the largest beasts walking the earth? I suppose that hiding from the dogs who had already trotted our way was done to prevent any association with those possessors of such short legs and dull teeth. Only the largest canines were worthy opponents.
The woman and her German Shepherd froze. The dog about to spring through his collar and the woman to turn back. My pen had just run out of gas, so I scooped the suicidal feline up with my free arm and carried her down the steps in a different direction. After a fair distance, I set her back on the ground and continued to our apartment where the door made an nasty slam behind me.




Nov 2
Hoping not to be removed from the church concert I have snuck into. At least two hundred other people  are crowded into this age-old church on a dark raining night. An introduction to the music being given by an unamplified speaker. I don't understand anything specific, but the sound of so many ears stirred by the single, acoustic voice is clear. The audience chuckles occasionally.

Painted white stone. It is suitable for a place of hope and sanctuary in the darkness of Bergen's Winter shadows. White walls, not grey stone or murky carvings. On this particular night, I can appreciate the sense which may not have existed in thought until now. Though, many other Norwegian churches are dark with a structure hewn only from bare wood. Staves. And they were once attended. 




Sunday, November 2, 2008


Her friends are also her family.

This being would do anything for her family.










She is loved by so 
many!!!!!


This Being has the Knowledge to be Humble and Grateful 
This being has the Wisdom of Forgiveness and Patience


This being is   e x t r e m e l y    g e n e r o u s (or liberal)



This being is still a child in all the best of ways!!!!
This being happily has a while yet to explore, give, and feel.
This Amazing Being, my MOM!!
I Love you! Happy 50th!!!!! 










Saturday, November 1, 2008

The Palette


Why couldn't I hear an account of the legend of the Flying Dutchman instead of Wagner's opera? 
 For over two hours- frustrated, bored, and bothered.
Sitting there, blaming myself, I thought, 'Love isn't an analyzed experience. Stop thinking and just witness it'. 

But, there was no gaining access to such pleasure.

 When the Opera sans intermission was over, I found myself on the street thrown against a brick wall of milk chocolate. Evening saved. Bravo, Chocolat! Encore, Chocolat!

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Whether the weather is dryer or wetter....

The time taken to make a cup of coffee- for a spot of water to boil and a scoop of beans to grind is often too long for the sky to stay clear. It could be the escaped vapor from the pot tipping the nearest cloud off balance, or perhaps an unreasonable assumption that the weather can accommodate my caffeine addiction. Whatever the truth of the matter-If the sun is out, dally not! Go and bask in it! 

Being in such an obsessively rainy place makes me curious about never before considered subjects. One is the feeling of rain for small birds flying through the air or hopping on the ground. Do their hollow skeletons ring with every small thud of raindrop bursting against body? Or do their feathers double as a type of raincoat like a duck's; transforming the raindrop's epoch transfer of energy into the tiniest of taps on the anatomical rainfly? 
While hiking the mountain in front of our apartment yesterday, Nicholai and I duly received a most appreciated dosage of pure sunshine through the exceptionally clear atmosphere. This vitamin D and generally enlivening cast of energy has been much missing from Bergen as hail, rain, and shadowy winds hide the sun's beaming face day after day. 
Dogs trotted along the path followed by their keepers, and fellow strollers smiled generously through the fine weather. We sat on a boulder gazing down at Bergen. I always imagine what partially developed places would look like without their man-made structures. A wide arm of sea-water reaching in between a huddle of mountains fully clothed in tree. That is all Bergen once was.
An elderly man with a short, orange dog rounded the bend in the path. He was being conspicuously tailed by two hooded crows and a magpie. One of them was so focused on keeping up with the man that it flew to the next, closest tree but failed to choose a proper perch. The bendy twig comically dumped the crow who had apparently also dumped its own pretense of "wildness". Every ten paces or so the old man rewarded this behavior with a few dog biscuits from a pouch. I imagine that dog biscuits must be considered a delicacy by such scavengers. Never have they been so eager to snatch with their big, black beaks the stale bread I regularly distribute. 
The old man's dog was a shrunken version of a husky with a diet too high in carotene. Erect ears, thick, orange fur, and long, curled tail. Nicholai had expressed a liking for this popular breed, so I approached the old man to find out a bit about them. Actually, I approached the dog. My Norwegian isn't exactly good enough to articulate "Hello, Sir. I like your dog very much. Of what breed is she?" The little dog was keen on a nice petting, and the white-haired man, discovering I didn't understand any of his Norwegian questions, obliged me with his basic English.
The dog was a japanese breed. They really are everywhere in Bergen. The man said that she was fourteen (older than him if you believe in "dog-years"). Last year he took her to Oslo (around five hours by train from Bergen) to have the cataracts in her eyes removed by lasic surgery. I said as I affectionately scrubbed the dog, "What a lucky girl you are". 
"Yes, so expensive...," he said with the helpless smile of a "softy".
His English was probably the worst of anyone I've met here so far, but it was still good enough to understand me and communicate a few humourous anecdotes.
The crows have been following him for years. He walks the mountain Floyen everyday, and they pursue his biscuit-tossing hand the whole way. "They are practically tame," he said, "and if another dog comes by or anyone else, they fly away. They know me." It is true that crows are intelligent enough to recognize many individual friends and foes.
In his unexcercised mumble he asked, "You are from the United States?"
"Yea, New Jersey."
"Yes, I have many relatives from the mile-high city." It took me a second to remember exactly where that is (Denver, CO).
"And, what do you think about the election?"
This conversation has been standard procedure these days. Hell, if I were from a small country but still up to date on international news, it would be the first thing I'd want to know from an American.
"I think it's very important that we elect Obama. Really important." I said, thinking silently (or else this world is really done for).
My new friend nodded in agreement. "McCain is the same. He is the same as Bush.......And what about Palin," as though I didn't know,"the Alaskan?".
"Horrible! Idiotic." 
He said something to the effect of "Arpfkhffffffff!"
We then wished each other a good day -being pleasantly in agreement about the crows and politicians. 
Nicholai had remained on the rock, watching and listening. After I had sat back down next to him, he said, "Maybe I should start following that guy around so he could feed me and pay for my lasic surgery...."

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

A few words from the Journey....

I wrote this for the blog while in the Atlantic en route to the Faroes.

This is one of the last long ocean journeys commonly taken. Not only are people along for the ride, but different gulls are surfing the draft alongside our vessel. They soar and plummet, soar and plummet. One of them compared to the more conventional type gulls swooping along looks like it`s wearing a leotard. Its wing and body shape is long and sleek, and its coloration of black and white with a sandy-yellow head is boldly solid compared to the others.

(This turned out to be the Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus).

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/59/Northern_Gannet_2006_2.jpg

It is the largest gannet in the world with a wing span up to 71 in. Apparently there are large colonies of them on Bonaventure Island in Quebec, but most of them live off of Britain and in this region. Very exotic-looking).

The ocean is bouncing this seven-floor goliath of a ferry on its salty knee like a babe. We have cruised past a number of oil rigs. One can see their long fiery tonges from a great distance away. It`s cold on deck, but there`s nowhere else to sit with the same view and fresh air to combat sea-sickness. The wind is violently stretching the surface of the ocean, leaving spindly streaks of foam.

The grace and haunting power of the seagulls who have been flying along with the boat for so many kilometers has made me feel especially landish. A dirt-walker. Or, if you prefer, a street-walker. Just kidding.
I`ve been playing with the idea that humans are these taller versions of legendary dwarves. We mine the earth for whatever sort of treasure is in demand.

"You need a big boat?.... arh, argh, argh!"
"You want to travel fast?...arh argh argh!"
"You want something to entertain you?....arh argh argh"

It´s not a lasting opinion, but a sudden humorous impression I received by comparing myself to the gulls. And I think we can all agree that humans without projects don`t know what to do with themselves.

Arh, argh, argh.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Greetings from the Faroe Islands!

This is the port in Torshvan at about seven in the morning the day I arrived. The white ship in the backround is the element-defying vessel that brought me these remote Viking islands- The Faroes.














2. At the center of town there is the park with sculptures, boulders, trees, and a stream. I spent a good chunk of time getting lost in it.
















3.Ducks enjoyed the many levels of stream leading away from a pond at the park's center. They often seemed to be taking their
 naps right at the edge of a miniature waterfall.












4.The first hour of a hike to a town on the other side of the island. The picture looks down at Torshvan. You can see the 
farm just before which was a marker of how to find the path. It was a loooong incline...












5. In this sea of rocks and stones, I 
needed to keep eyes peeled for particularly man-made-looking piles. This area was especially vague.


















6. Upon rounding the noll..... The rough green coat of moss and scrub seemed to go on and on considering the undersized presence of the island.















7. The Rams and Sheep weren't too thrilled by the intrusion. In one village I walked by a cart full of their carcasses. It was quite a surprise at the time.









8.Lots of hardened lava-walls littering the basalt slopes. That is about all I can gather from the geological surveys I tried deciphering.
































9.Throne? Toilet? Fire Pit? Wind Shelter? Sheep Spectator Seat? Execution Chair? All of the above?
















10.That's where the deceased are said to go to rest.

Just kidding, but, hey, could be nice.











10.A series of rock towers ("cans") leads through the
 desert of turf and cloud. I put a bunch of rocks down for everyone. Explained below.

















11. This photo was taken just before I started running away from that rain cloud.















12. wait for me sun! Entrancing, though.


















13. The next day on a different set of slopes. I took a bus to get there, but the rock-towers were no where to be found. The fog drove me back down eventually.

Saw a number of huge Mountain Hares- and sheep of course. The hares are the size of a small dog. Could kick a bunnie's cotton-tailed butt.
This would be a really harsh place to endure for the Winter months. It just seems to bare and open. The wind is 
scalding, Fog thick, and the rain throws fits down sporadically throughout the day. Vikings were made of tough stuff!




It all started Saturday afternoon. I was looking for national parks an
d interesting geographical areas in Norway on the computer. Nicholai would be leaving with the orchestra the following day for a week, and he is not the only one who likes to get around. So, as I zoomed out on the google satellite map, I spotted what looked like a tiny cluster of islands alone in the atlantic between Norway and Iceland. At that moment, Nich came up behind me to ask what I was looking at. The moment he realized, he said quite excite
dly, "That`s where you should go-to the Faroe Islands! There is even a boat that leaves from Bergen."
I had wanted to have some kind of oceanic experience so badly I had been considering offering labor to one of the small fishing boats in the port if they would have me out. The Faroe Island sh
ip (which continues all the way to Iceland) was leaving on Sunday. I was able to walk Nich to his bus, then get on my ship. Perfect.
Of the many special thoughts and observations of the voyage, one would be the comic execution of showering in a rolling and rocking ship. Not only is it incredible to be so very far from a landmass on the ocean in a manmade floating piece of metal, Not slipping in the shower is hard enough without it jumping and pitching underneath oneself. Being surrounded by many kilometers of freezing salt water but having the the luxury of a steaming hot, salt-free shower....It all struck me as incredible. I`d never taken a nice hot shower on a ship in the ocean before.
Torshvan is where I kept a room. The boat unloaded us there at 6:15 this morning. Nothing was even open yet, but I walked around long enough to find the hostel (where I still had to make a reservation) and a tourist information center. The woman there (when they opened) helped me to plan out a day`s hike and book a room at the hostel. I walked around a bit looking for the road out of town, but eventually found myself following a stream into a park at the middle. There were rolling hills of grass and boulders, evergreens and birch. A pond at the center hosted some thirty ducks (one type of which was so unique and unfamiliar to me). I will look it up when I have more than 15 minutes at the library computer. There was also one mammoth swan. Every few minutes people would come and tear whole loaves of bread into pieces for the lucky birds. The town pets.
After having some chips with two Germans and a Frenchman headed to Iceland, I made my way along the main road to one edge of the city. There was a footpath (barely) leading away from the road and up over the basalt slopes. It was basically a legal way of cutting through a dozen different rocky pastures to make a two-hour hike to the town of Kirkjubø. The wind was incredible. It was so ghusty, forcing its way over an unyielding landscape of rocks and turf. The hike, which I started at two, took me until five. Tentative showers passed over at times. Sheep and rams stared me down for minutes before clomping off of the path. The view was spectacular. The Faroe Isalnds are grouped in linear strips. My view showed one island boasting a very pointed mountain with well-bowed slopes. Glaciers....

There were many "cans" or as I know them, "rock towers". They gradually rise whenever a passersby feels inspired to leave a thought or an act behind. I did my part, placing a stone on every tower I passed for all the people in my life who are dear and to whom I am eternally grateful. If you are reading this, I definitely placed a rock and a loving thought down for you. (I was quite thorough). It was a great way to move from tower to tower-floating through loving thoughts as I squelched along.

In October on the Faroe Islands, night fall is around Five oclock. Luckily I made it off the path and was walking on the road by then. The "town" I had made my way to was only a scattered twenty or so grass-covered houses and a church. I didn`t see and buses coming. It was dark and the wind was hurling heavy rain. I had slipped on some mud/ manure(?) so I was already a bit of a wet mess. Really needing for some driver to respond to my raised thumb, three cars passed me unheedingly. The fourth stopped. Young people. Three siblings college to middle shool aged on their way to a family dinner. I asked about the island life and they said that almost everyone knows everybody else (at least by face). The whole country (self-governing apart from Denmark) has only 45,000 people. The three seemed impressed and intrigued to hear that I was from the states. Only a minute or so later did the tenth-grader ask if I was headed back for the election. I told of the absentee ballot system, and they said that there was a similar system for fisherman who couldn`t be at the polls for their elections. I wasn`t expecting people from such a tiny, remote place on earth to be so knowldgeable of politics and world events. I couldn`t have been more wrong. The tenth-grader explained that the islands are so small that there isn`t anything really worth covering for a local paper and everyone reads the international ones. Also he told that since the Faroes are so small compared to all the superpowers of the world and still quite affected by their decisions, they pay extra close attention to how the global political winds blow. I could feel my popularity climb as I said that Obama is our only real hope...the only man for the job running for the job.
I loved listening to and learning from such intelligent young adults. Not that I am no longer one myself.

But seriously, why do Americans still elect assenine and morally corrupt leaders? I can`t reason it out. Forgive it out.

Surprisingly, vegetarianism is cheap here-if you do your own shopping. Fruits and veggies are definitely the cheapest stuff at the market. Brie was also the cheapest cheese, wierd.

Apparently at 8:30 last night, my body was so sore (from hiking and slipping in converse) and spent that I had to sleep. Of course, I woke up at six to lie thinking and read a bit. Breakfast opens at the hostel at 8. So finally when my watch read 8:15, I made my way to the other building where a pretty eatery with crisp pine tables and orchids is clear through large windows.
The owner and his wife were dining. Awkward, I thought. They seemed startled to see me and spoke to eachother confusedly in Faroese. Eventually, they asked if I in fact hadn`t eaten already as breakfast had finished fifteen minutes before. The time was 9:45. Turns out that my watch is messed up. I explained that I must still be on Norwegian time (an hour later) but now I realize that that doesn`t even make sense. I am going to have to set my camera or something if I am to make it anywhere on time. They were graceous, though, and allowed me to eat and drink at my own pace.

The sun is shining. Weather is definitely a moment-to-moment occurence here. I`m sure all the local meterologists go insane because they can`t ever get it right. Either that or they tell everyone over the one radio station to "SEE FOR YOURSELVES". I`ve got to catch a bus for some more hiking.
Much love to everyone!!
Dwell well!

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Don't Delay, Pick Hips Today!!!



Deliciously tart and sweet. A syrup from Rose hips. I made some yesterday. This is the time of year when all those good-looking rose bushes reveal a bit of substance.....
The red, bulbous "haws" which replace deceased rose blossoms contain 20 times the vitamin C of oranges. Try eating twenty handfuls of orange vs. one of rose hip (or just drink some canned, I mean cartoned O.J.). But even if rose hips had half of the vitamin C of an orange, they would still make a more delicious syrup! People have been gathering and preparing rose hips for ages. Even during WWII (when produce was scarce) tons of haws were collected by civilians to keep Britain healthy.
Regardless of their historical merit, these firm, cherry-tomato-like seed packages are fun to harvest and even more so to transform (without cost) into a sumptuous goo for pancakes, waffles, icing, or any sugar-snack recipe. I was actually surprised at how yummy the syrup is. Most distinct.

If anyone would care to take advantage of the neighborhood haws while they are available (Sept-Oct), this is the recipe I used. It is from another site. I preferred it because it involved less work. 

Rose Hip Syrup
1. pick hips (at least a 1/2 cup)
2. trim ends
3. boil for 2o minutes with lid with around three times water as hip.
4. mash with potato masher about 5 min. before taking it off the heat.
5. Strain through a thick cloth. Catch juice. I used an old linen pillow case. Double a thinner fabric. The object is to remove the seeds and the fine, sharp hairs on them. This is an important step because the hairs are no good to ingest. I strained it once, no problem. 
6. Add sugar until taste is satisfactory. Usually around one equal part. I did 2/3's of that.
7. Keep in fridge.
8. I believe it lasts a week unless it is canned properly. Then it will last a year.

I used it in icing for cupcakes the other day. Delicious! Apparently, "cupcake" is an American word. The British call them "fairy cakes". So, I won't be making them any more.

Nicholai's beer is a great success. He even made labels for it. It is trademarked "Bobas' Bodacious Bergen Brew". A light beer. Good with a lime.
Everyday I read or search the web, stroll up the mountain to see flowers and grasses growing upside down or slugs riding mushrooms, and practice. 
Today I will be thinking up a subject to habitually touch on in the blog. Perhaps a feature per post on a certain tree, plant, or bird I come across that demands consideration. I would like to expand my knowledge of the local ecology. Hopefully, some of you are with me on this:-)
In any case, apologies for the slow pace of getting posts out there. A snail has escaped in our apartment. So I have been distracted.
Until the next, dwell well!


Monday, September 29, 2008

She's got her head in the clouds!

Towards the end of our winding, rock-riddled ascent, an unspoken agreement was made. Every twenty feet or so there would be a short mandatory break from hoisting and heaving ourselves upwards to lean exhaustedly against the nearest boulder or tree. Young clouds raced by us and around the 2 million-year-old fjords, independent of the more mature condensations far above to whom we owed the steady down-pour. At the beginning of the climb, every new and interesting flower received adulations of intense study and a "head-shot" with Nicholai's camera. I wanted to look them up afterwards so that my guide wouldn't need to enter the rain and a forever warped thereafter.


After three hours without sight of our evening's shelter, however, the flowers all started to look essentially the same and all too dribbling with wetness to be of importance. Nicholai's great find in the water-proof jacket department of the Salvation Army in Bergen turned out not to be so water-proof or great. His two cotton hoodies didn't serve him so well underneath it, either. So, by the time we spotted the two little huts "Flatbrehytta"(from a sharp bend at the end of a gruelling incline and the entrance to a hidden glacier valley) he could hardly contain his excitement; neither could I.

We were both soaked to the skin and frozen to the bone. My hands were still semi-operable, but lighting a fire took real doing. With numb and shaky hands, it was difficult to gage my grip on the matches, so I kept either dropping them or snapping them in half as I scratched them to life. Eventually, however, the virtues of a candle, dry birch-bark, and splintered logs redeemed our deadened fingers and toes with a toasty fire in the stove.

The hut was as charmingly rustic as one could desire. It was equipt with
net-fulls of well-travelled chopped wood, containers
of sugar, instant coffee, plates and mugs, utensils, and other cookware for the mini wood stove. The huts were said to sleep 18 but seemed much more compact than such a boast would insinuate. No
one was there, and I hoped that we would see nightfall without any other arrivals. It would have been quite cramped considering the bad weather and our wet clothes occupying all the other fireside seating. The hut next to the one where we warmed-up and slept was probably half of the size and constructed of piled stones -definitely from the immediate landscape. (There is a picture on this post of me standing in front of it with the elusive "Flatbreen" glacier in the backdrop). The bunks within it hinged out from the walls. For some sick reason, I fantasized a lot as a kid of sleeping on a wooden-board like one of those. If it had a taller door, I'm sure an ogre or troll would have taken up residence. That evening, as our soaking clothes quietly dried, candles flickered, rain turned to snow, and the glacier behind us sat reminiscing back to its mountain-slaking glory days.
When we woke up the following morning,
the mountains had changed aspect. They were now snow-capped. There was also a dense, intermittent "fog" (which was actually a series of clouds engulfing our altitude). The glacier, which we had planned to visit, was no longer locatable. We walked in the direction we had seen it the day before, but the cloud bank left us stupified....either that or the "glacier" had actually been the ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN!

For moments of zen: a secluded out house in a rock-garden of mammoth proportions........Soon before I wiped out.....

The idea of looking for the glacier as the snow covered the trail and the mist did our eyes seemed overwhelmingly silly. So, we turned back to the hut. How wild that such an immense thing could so easily disappear into a cloud! And if a huge glacier could vanish, two little people would be majorly screwed. We saw a different "tounge" of glacier from a different place that we drove to on our way back to Bergen.
The different grasses, mosses, mushrooms, flowers, and trees that grew were diverse and lovely. Ferns were dying back with the approach of winter. Some were already blood red, but many in the process of losing their green had turned butter-yellow. They speckled the slopes along with yellow aster tripolium, blue harebells (campanula rotundifolia)baby birches, and bilberry bushes. Birches and Spruces stuck with their own. Often, pure stands of each would be arbitered by the trail through the woods towards the bottom of the mountains.
The surrounding countryside of Fjaerland, Norway consisted of pasture with grazing animals, old barns, bales of covered hay, and humble houses.
What a truly stunning place! Too bad it doesn't exist.





P.S. Apologies for the small size of the images, couldn't figure it out this time. They are all at Nicholai's photo posting on Flickr, though. But, be warned: I just went to it and there are way too many of just me. Should have brought my own camera, I suppose....
http://www.flickr.com/photos/23001798@N05/sets/72157607566074010/show/


The bottom dweller

My photo
A highly civilized and refined animal limited mostly to the bottom of the atmosphere and prone to over analyzing what it's worth.