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/

Run, the Logistics are coming!!!

Rather than go to Italy, Nick and I are heading to pay our respects to a glacier in Northern Norway. "Jostedal" located within the Jotunheimen National Park. Apparently, "we will get to Italy". I am happy with flora, fauna, cliffs, mountains, valleys, and sheets of ice myself. So, this trip should be great.

Today I made a visit to the Bergen Cultural History Museum. Admition for students is free. There were a few interesting exhibits. The Stone Age, The Viking Age, and Church Art. At first I thought that the Stone Age exhibit was the Viking exhibit, and I was slightly disappointed with the amount of artifacts there were (mostly flint and slate blades with some carved stone club-ends. A few arrow heads mounted on traditionally constructed arrows). It seemed that the country from which most Vikings originated should boast a more formidable display of the latest Viking hardware and accessories. I soon realized, however, that the display items I was looking at were of the Stone Age- hailing from around 12,000 years prior to me instead of a mere Viking 1,000. The Viking exhibit was very interesting. Big plunderers, Sea-farers, traders, hunters, metal-workers. The Viking women worked looms and made fabics....that would take me a long time to figure out!

I somehow forgot that Leif Ericsson was the first European to reach the shores of the North American Coast. Why didn't we ever get out of school on his birthday? 

The Christian art exhibit was dark and troubling. Much of the art was very impressive, though. Almost all churches in Norway up until the 16th century were wrought out of wood. Imagine a somewhat smallish cathedral complete with celtic carvings on every square inch of its surface and constructed entirely with massive slabs of wood. Hopefully, I will see some "staves" as they are called and which still stand in certain places this weekend. The rest of the Christian art was slightly depressing. Saints getting martyred. The frowns and sickly pale complexions of Clerics and Bishops captured eternally by paintings and "antiquities". How was this religious culture enlivening? Was life so bad back in the 900's AD that people could be convinced about the post- mortem rewards for following orders and fearing "judgement" by a bunch of tip-toeing sour-pusses with a foreign text? Not completely, we know how much some Christians cared for others' well-being- in the "after-life". So much, it was worth killing for at times. 

Anyway, do we really need a middle man for being good? A reward other than the faith we give to ourselves when we make the world a little better for somebody or something else? Do we need to fear the consequences of being bad to do the opposite? That would be depressing....

Jesus was a good person. Why do good things always go bad? 

Aaaaah, the logistical need for rain pants is coming. It is supposed to rain all weekend, and we have major trails to make. The Salvation Army is closing in 30 minutes. Got to Runnnnnn!

Bergen, the Imaginary Place......

Hello everyone,

I was just thinking to myself that perhaps there are some readers under the impression that Bergen, Norway is a real place-that is exists at all. If this is so, allow me to apologize for having lead you astray. Bergen, as a F.A.C.T. (false asserted claim trick) exists on the coast of Norway, but not actually. Actually, it is an imaginary place. Entirely fabricated. What I mean to say is that just because Bergen is one of the most amazing places to live in the world- doesn't make it real enough for other people to explore;-). It can be our imaginary secret. So just remember, all this hype is conceived in delerium.
It seems that the most common bird here is the Hooded Crow (corvus cornix). I am not used to their commonness yet as every time I see one land in a tree or flutter its wings on the pavement, it strikes me as a rare and special event. They are so singular because their coloration is much more interesting than a pidgeon's or the American Crow's (Corvus Brachyrhynchos~come again?). The Hooded Crow dons a greyish/whitish cape extending through its wings. So the b&w contrast can be a real eye-catcher. While looking around for this radical little flesh-monger on the net, I discovered that there is a wonderfully clear example of evolution taking place here in Europe which will soon determine the fate of the Corvus Cornix.

You see, both the Hooded Crow and the Carrion Crow are common throughout segregated parts of Europe. No-not places where people are segregated. The Hooded Crow and the Carrion Crow mysteriously inhabit separate territories. These birds, however, are the same in almost every way and were mistaken for years to be exactly the same race. There has not been found any inherent advantage one race of these crows has over the other within the varying temperatures and terrains they inhabit, but they are gradually ousting one another from certain places (and food sources). The great article I found is at www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A3347093
It all boils down to the theory/ truism that "no two species can coexist indefinitely on the same limiting resource". This is the Law of Exclusion as generalized by Gause. First of all, generalizations are great. Aren't they Mr. Harvey? Or is it philosophizing? I forget. But this (macho-voice , please) "LAW of EXCLUSION" is intriguing. Does this apply to people of different ethical strains? If both a destructive and wasteful race of person must inhabit the same place and consume from the same cache of resources as the fair and kind race, is the latter doomed? This has been an absorbing wonder of mine for a while. One can only care so much either way, because no species seems to be permanent. But, what, if anything, could there be for us average joe-hippies to do and better our odds? Is selfishness like a weed that we were born near to and need to pull out every so often? Or are some people just born as weeds. (Alright, weeds aren't all that bad. I don't mind them, actually. Parasitic vines and stuff are pretty creepy, though). Just read that article. That is some interesting stuff.

Bergen, exists in a cloud bank. The green mountains reach up from the towns' mix of both timeless and modern urbanities with real pride. No distant sillouettes here. The houses and streets cling to the mountains. The mountain clings to the trees, and the clouds come as close as they dare without falling down.

It has drizzled every day so far. Feels like Ireland. I like it, and was able to Convince some people in the orchestra last night that it was a real mystical environment. At least, thinking of it that way is a lot better than thinking every day's parade has been ruined.

Now, for the most important thing to note for today. This is very serious. I have not made an announcement like this in a very long time, and I do make a habit of pretty insane announcements.

There is a new band on the scene. Their music was playing in a bar the other night. It was instantly wonderful. It sounds like Brian Wilson/ the moody blues/ and pure magic. Honestly, these guys are a beach boy sham. Nothing very new, but no one else is writing music like this anymore. The idea of seeing this type of music live will keep me up at night. The music is flipping insane. My opinion of it is so high that it could make me cry while listening. The lead singer's voice is very effective. Firm, not too silvery, but emotional. The band name is stupid. And the type of music they claim to make-how they genrify-is lame. But the music, the music is unreal. Dad, Nicola, Charles, Bri-----they are a must. Go to itunes/ the library asap. (once again, not a sponsored plug....)

They are
"Fleet Foxes". Check them out now. If I am the last to know about them, that figures. But, now you know what I have been listening to over and over in Bergen. Aspiring to make similar music.


Lots of Love to everyone!

Places we go for love

Norway has been tracked down (I only arrived by train from Sweden this morning). My roundabout travels to Norway began with a flight out of Philadelphia with a skull-scratchingly cheap stand-by ticket from a good neighbor/ pilot extraudinaire in New Jersey, General Larry Thomas. Thanks so much, Larry!! The flight took me to Stockholm, Sweden.

I met a nice man on the plane named Charles. He was an ex-republican turned "Omnivore's Dilemma" recommender and Obama supporter. This is reassuring. He knew a lot about Chemistry and Economics and must have overestimated how well I could keep up with his discourses. It was pleasant to converse with someone possessing so well-developed specific and general assessment abilities. Learning unintentionally is always a thrill.

Too much on that, anyway. I carefully (and painfully-with a smorgasboard of cumbrous carry-on) selected a bottle of Scotch for the man lending me a bass in Bergen while at the duty-free in Philly. Prices on booze in Norway are sinful. I managed to get the paper bag to the baggage claim in Stockholm, only to forget it on the floor after I ran to get my suitcase. Someone should be feeling fairly lucky (and toasted) right about now. However, it irks me that someone must have seen me walking airily away from the lone satchel. Why did no one grab my arm or whistle and point me back? Luck-grubbers!

Stockholm was much too big to cover in an afternoon. I had from 9:00 to 16:00 before I would be boarding my first train for Bergen. I stored my things in a locker. The "Old City" of Stockholm reminded me of Quebec City. It has similar touristic art galleries and souvenir shops lining the narrow cobbled lanes. I find that the cobbled alleys in Bergen are just as enchanting-with less schmultz to historically distance them.
Walked through a church cemetery and felt extremely conflicted upon seeing a man with a very nasty gash on his forehead and fresh-looking rivulets of blood flowing down his face. He was sitting quite placidly on a bench. I did not go up to him to help in some way because I would have been the ideal victim for any desperate attempt to rob or somehow malign. That is rubbish in my opinion, but I would have hated to prove right the many forewarners of my life by putting myself in harm's way. I hate doubting people as a general rule, though. His head was messed up, and I wasn't scared of him-so why the heck not be a "good samaritan". Damn, I only just saw that connection. Maybe we should never second-guess our sympathies unless we wish to dwell in fear and distrust (and hipocracy) our whole lives.
I bought some beautiful old posters of Swedish Wildflower educational tools. They will look beautiful all over a bedroom and on the ceiling. I won't be able not to learn something if it is repeatedly the first thing I see every morning. And what a lovely subject to think of first in the morning.

The train from Stockholm to Oslo was the best experience I've ever had on a railway. The cars were from the sixties, but renovated to work and look like new. The interior was paneled completely with pretty wood. The windows opened (which anyone who knows me can appreciate on my behalf-I hate getting hot). There were private compartments like on the Orient or Hogwarts Express, except not one other person occupied the same train car with me. The whole train seemed completely empty. It was high-speed and made no noise. Even when I opened the window the only sound was a whoosh of air and leaves being swept aside. No clickety-clack. No chugging. The arms of the seats folded back to create as much space as needed, and the bathrooms weren't odorous. There was no obnoxious loud speaker. It was punctual. I bought my student-rate ticket on board from the conductor with a card.
Please, understand that I have ridden more trains than anyone else you or I know. I only just learned to drive. But there has never been a comparison to that train. How can I go back to NJtransit without wincing, and how are there not more trains like that one!!?? This was not a sponsored blog or anything. I really fell in love with that train!! (unionsexpressen.com). Of course, the scenery was also superb.

I arrived at the Oslo train station at 22:00 to wait for my next train departing an hour+ later. There seemed to be an abundance of pickpockets there. While trying to print my reserved train ticket at a machine, it suddenly happened that three foreign men were all busily occupied in overly dramatic cell phone conversations just two feet away. Their number mysteriously increased as they closed in on me in the near-empty arena of a train station. There were other people about, but the size of the station made the men's proximity all too suspicious (and annoying). I conspicuously gripped the mouth of my purse with a muscled jaw and fury radiating peripherally from my eyes, hoping to express "Get lost, vile larceners!" with every part of my body. I was about to kick all of their asses (or get totally burglarized) when they dispersed. What can I say (you don't want to meet me in a dark alley)? I have overly developed jaw-muscles from too much tension while playing bass? My haircut makes me look tough? It's all true!
But I really don't like sneaky, greasy thugs. Who wouldn't appreciate the opportunity to step heavily on their feet?

Otherwise, people in Scandinavia were the exact opposite-most courteous and helpful. Once I got my mouth to start articulating a question, they responded immediately with whatever answer or assistance they could muster. When I asked a train conductor if there was any drinking water on the train, he said "come with me" and lead me through four cars of sleeping people to the conductor's car where he opened an "employees only" door and gave me a bottle from a case obviously meant for "employees". That was so amazing to me. Does anyone know another conductor/ railway employee who wouldn't just answer "nope"?
I only received poor directions once, and I should have known better because she "didn't understand maps" and told me to "just go that way"-which of course was the completely wrong way to go.

It was seven hours and forty-six minutes before Nicholai's kiss, a glass of water, a shower, a cup of coffee, a change of clothes, and another kiss when I wrote most of this on the midnight train to Bergen. Now I have had all that and more. I'll be going to buy some tacks for these posters now. Don't worry, there are wide framing margins. Take care, everyone and thanks for giving me a reason to get all this in writing.
xoxoxo

The Long, Congested Road

Seven hours is what I spent driving yesterday from Boston to NYC. The mysterious three extra hours were added by extra-terrestrial congestants. Stupid traffic. Traffic that would seem pointless. traffic for traffic's sake.

 It occurred to me as I sat for hours in the fog of environmental delinquency that such traffic happens all over the world-all the time.It happens on dirt roads to nowhere, but it also happens in "the greatest cities in the world". It happens at predicted places,for predictable stretches of road. So, without intending to initiate any logistical brainstorm, (though, if anyone has any systems engineering know-how-to, be my guest)isn't it strange that our cars aren't routinely clicked together and steadily drawn through congested areas (like a train)? 

...

Even with all of my clever, dead-end ideas, today I was still unable to scrape by a parked car's bumper without leaving it a little "bent out of shape". No one ever warned me about the slanted parking spaces that one should only pull into from the gentler side. Nor was I informed that scraping and bending another bumper makes the same amount of noise as not scraping and bending one. Perhaps, the loud squealing and grinding which occurs when one "can't park" only ever existed in my imagination. But, today the damage was done without a sound. I would have heard it with my open windows ....

(So,If one car scrapes another car in the forest and no one is around to hear it, then would it make a sound?)

Yes, the best idea yet would be for me to learn how to drive. I know. But, maybe as a "#2", after that, car manufacturers could design a lego-like bumper. The bonked places could simply fall off to be replaced by other inexpensive duplicates. 

One could walk into any evil department store and say "Uh, Yea, I need a Rear #3 bumper chunk." The front and rear bumpers could be split up into 10 sections. #3 could be the third from the left. It could only cost twenty dollars or so,...

Manufacturers could even be so kind as to make these bumper replacement chunks universal. 

Alas, such ideas are bad for the economy. And anyway, the angry old man has grandsons who may be able to unbump the bumper back into its original hump. 

First Impressions

So, 

Setting up a blog to keep you co-bottomdwellers up to date took about one minute. Packing shall recommence at 1:26 AM (once this entry is over). As it is, the rubble of misplaced clothes all over my floor disguises the feat of Organization I accomplished earlier today . "This comes/ this goes". It packs down to what kind of person I want to be in Norway. A person with this here stuff, or that. 

Went to the Arnold Arboretum today with Mal. Wine and leaf-screened sunlight must coexist in heaven. I also waved at a friendly looking girl in the car next to us today. She smiled. Then I suddenly thought that she rolled down her window to say something, so I lowered mine, but Mal then informed me it had been open the whole time and that I'm "weird". Well, it's only 1:21. I'm better at this than I thought. The next message will type itself from within all the glory of Norway and smooch intermission.

In evolutionary solidarity,

Pidge