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...."

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.

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!

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!