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Destination: Norway

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Norway: Meatloaf and Mellow

Oslo’s new Opera House is a huge hit. And it has a rooftop that seats 8,000.
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We were allowed to film the mayor introducing the band, and then they escorted us out. Tusen Takk!
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About my “convalescence”: It’s impressive what a couple of quiet days on the Mosel River can do for your spirit and batteries. Thanks for the encouragement. (Perhaps that’s why this blog entry is overdue.) Being in Europe, it can be very hard to just say, “Enough.” As if channel-surfing on a great TV with an infinite number of channels, there’s always something enticing beyond what you can comfortably experience.

My time on the Mosel reminded me of a critical day I spent last year in Athens. We had just produced two exciting shows on Greece. My brain was fried. I was concerned I’d get a cold. I felt like you do when you know getting sick is God’s way of telling you to slow down — and you’re snowballing out of control with an exhilarating project. It was the day before we flew to Iran for our 12-day shoot there, and it would be the most demanding TV production work I think I’d ever done. I needed to be fresh and healthy. I checked out of the last day of shooting in Athens and spent the entire day poolside on the rooftop of our hotel… recharging. And, thankfully, it worked.

We just finished a six-day shoot in Oslo. My plane landed here among flooded lakes. They’d had nothing but rain for a month. When it comes to producing a TV show, Oslo in the rain is just seven kinds of bad. But we had glorious sunshine, and all of Oslo was in bloom for us.

I love Norway — probably because I’m Norwegian. Three of my grandparents grew up in Norway. (Two homesteaded in Edmonton. One was a relatively famous and often-drunk ski jumper in Leavenworth, Washington.) Yesterday I told my producer, Simon, “Everyone looks like my brother.” He was shocked (having traveled with me for 12 years of TV production) and said, “I didn’t know you had a brother.” I don’t. But if I did, they’d look like the guys around us. But it’s more than how they look. It’s how they are. A fun part of travel is to feel a kinship with people from the land of your forefathers.

Norway seems so mellow and content and comfortable and successful. You have to wonder why. And you have to consider that since it’s sparsely populated, it seems nearly everyone’s cut from the same ethnic mold (nearly 20 percent of the population are immigrants, but they seem to live in a parallel world), and there’s plenty of money. Whenever you’re assessing a society (whether Norway, Iran, Alaska, Venezuela, or Texas), if its affluence is based on oil, its policies don’t apply to the rest of the world.

Of course, Norway has a lavish social support system (everyone gets a home, food, money, health care, education, security). While Americans paranoid about these things might call them “socialists,” Norwegians are quite enthusiastically capitalistic. There’s a huge participation in the stock market among Norwegians (they say more, per capita, than Americans). While it’s hard to be poor here, you can be quite wealthy. While ostentatious Norwegians are looked down upon, the wealthy elite who don’t show off are admired.

I’ve long wondered if the incentive to work hard in order not to be poor — which is the active ingredient of capitalism — only works if there are losers. In other words, does capitalism require poverty? But Norway seems to be a land where there are essentially no losers, yet people work hard and the country thrives.

I don’t think we’ve ever filmed in a more laid-back big city than Oslo. At every museum and important place we took our big camera, the attendants just said, “Welcome. Let us know if we can help you.”

Then we went to a concert on the Opera rooftop. (Oslo has a very exciting new Opera House that doubles as a public plaza, with a rooftop that people just have to walk on.) To kick off Oslo’s jazz festival, a hot English group named Antony and the Johnsons (with a lead singer who looks like a cross between Meatloaf and Marilyn Manson) was performing on a stage raft anchored just off the slanting marble slopes of the opera house, and 8,000 people packed the rooftop for the show.

At first we had permission to film. We got there, were escorted to the media stand, and suddenly someone said our permission had been revoked. The security guards turned quite surly, trying to physically escort us out. I suddenly felt like we were dealing with the lackeys of some Batman villain. We tried to discuss the issue, and they treated us like a serious threat to Antony. We told the publicist from the opera house how un-Norwegian the security force seemed. She said, “They were imported by Antony from Britain for this gig.”

Much as I love Norway, goat cheese, and my blond cousins, it seemed I needed to inject some color into my days. Almost every night, we found ourselves walking down a street called Grønland into the immigrant district for food that was both spicy and affordable. Dining streetside, seeing a rainbow of people and a few rough edges, made the world a little less Wonder Bready.

After a week in expensive Norway, I’m comfortable with the notion that up here, beer is wine ($8 a glass). And for coffee, we’d drop by any convenience store and buy an iced latte in a box for $3. It could be some solace to think that the high prices we’re incurring are just helping pay for all that lavish social support everyone here enjoys…but it’s not.

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Salmon, Shrimp, and Paternal Leave

Edvard Grieg gained inspiration a century ago in a fjord-side hut just outside Bergen, in the west of Norway.
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The concert hall at Grieg’s home overlooks his composing hut, and the fjord beauty that inspired his romantic music.
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Clever Norwegian road signs remind drivers to be safe with a powerful emotional appeal. Care about your loved ones? Tired? Take a rest.
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I came to Scandinavia a couple weeks ago intending to both update my guidebook and sharpen my plans for filming here next month. I was fine with my intended Oslo and Stockholm scripts, but worried about a weak fjord country script.

Happily, I come away with piles of exciting ideas for our fjord show, from ginger glacier hikes to zodiac speedboat tours in the mist of waterfalls under towering cliffs. We’ll visit the best stave church in Norway, lonely in a lush valley — its thousand-year-old dragon eves still snarling at evil spirits in the sky. We’ll hike to a tiny, weather-aged log cabin farm hamlet stranded high above the fjords, where goats still find grass. And we’ll film an Edvard Grieg piano concert in a sleek little concert hall with a long black grand piano perched before a huge window to become part of a dramatic fjord setting, including the idyllic cabin where the composer wrote much of his best music. I am just at the mercy of the weather.

The weather has been scorching during this visit. I’d just wash out my shirt and put it on wet. Locals were acting confused, saying, “I can’t even think straight in this heat.” Scandinavians were at the beaches in droves. I noticed in both Helsinki and Stockholm that the former military forts (the Gibraltars of the Baltic: Vaxholm and Suomenlinna) were now parks with families picnicking literally atop 19th-century gun emplacements — places once strategic for national security, and now strategic only for sun worship.

Society here is famously compassionate and well-organized. Highway billboards show a man napping peacefully on his thankful partner, who shares an important message to approaching drivers: “Sleepy? Pull over and take a rest.” Another billboard has a dad driving with his child’s arm snuggly across his chest like a belt. The sign reads, “Buckle up for your family.” I put in a lot of miles safely. I wore my seatbelt and kept myself awake thinking about random stuff. Did you even notice how many people have the initials HH? (Hubert Humphrey, Hugh Heffner, Helly Hanson, Herbert Hoover, Howard Hughes.)

Norway has laced and drilled its way together with an amazing road system connecting fjord country with Oslo. The longest tunnel is 15 miles. When a toll is levied (as it is for cars entering Oslo and Bergen, to keep down traffic), toll booths are antiquated. You don’t stop and pay. A camera takes your car’s photo, and the license plate is matched to your credit card, which is billed. Those new roads zip travelers around quicker, but also make previously tranquil valleys noisier. I had to drop one unfortunate campground with great riverside bungalows from my guidebook. For ten years, it was a fine little budget place to sleep. Now, rumbling trucks trample the tranquility, so it’s out.

Scandinavians speak English so well, most tours at museums and historic sites simply dispense with the local language and locals and tourists-alike hear it in one language: English.

I was at a cousin’s dinner party with a dozen people in Oslo. Because I was there, they simply spoke English. I felt like it was an inconvenience, but it fazed no one. Topics were fascinating: One man, who just wrote a book on FDR (in Norwegian — a market of only 4 million readers), talked with me about the intricacies of American post-WWII politics as no one I’ve ever met. Someone else suggested that, as Norway’s international telephone prefix is 47 and the USA’s is 1, the system must have originated in America. Another observed that Europeans seem more interested in American Indians than Americans are, and asked if that might be because we feel guilty and they have no guilt on the subject. And another observed that Midwest Americans talked louder than other Americans, and wondered if it was for the same reason West Coast Norwegians talk louder than people from Oslo — because they are always trying to be heard above the constant wind.

Norwegians love to vacation in Greece. They agreed with me that Greece may have invented the aesthetics of beauty, but you’d never know it today by driving around the country. One suggested it might be like how England invented the Industrial Revolution, yet has today’s rustiest economy. Perhaps economically or culturally, a society is inclined to rest on its laurels — it’s just human nature.

People seemed very content. Two new parents at the party were debating the various ways to split their paid maternal and paternal leave. There seemed to be little concern about any economic crisis. These Norwegians were just loving their salmon, shrimp, and goat cheese.

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Nordic National Galleries: More than a Scream

In the last week, I’ve been in three national galleries: in Oslo, Stockholm, and Helsinki. Each one is a hardened little palace of culture, showing off the nature of the land and the psyche of its people in a proud and central architectural jewel box.

It just seems obvious that a national gallery would give a probing view into a people. Of the many national galleries, Scandinavia’s do this extremely well. (Others that come to mind — like London’s and Washington DC’s — mix it up with more generally great art.) But in a little country (with no history of art-grubbing royalty), in a land where the visitor who hits it on a bad month might wonder why anyone would want to even live up here…much less paint, a national gallery works to show visitors that people who live here are not nuts. (Do you have a favorite national gallery for giving an insight into a particular culture?)

In each case — whether Norway, Sweden, or Finland — the paintings exaggerate the power and awesomeness of nature. In those tangled, plush, tumultuous symphonies of nature, the piccolo section is the country folk — people in traditional peasant costumes, tiny but in sharp focus…surviving with grace. Or, in the most famous painting in Scandinavia, just letting out a bloodcurdling Scream.

Like the Swedes have Carl Larsson, each country has its Norman Rockwells who painted almost photorealistic looks at 19th-century Scandinavian life. Rather than paintings celebrating kings and popes, it’s people’s art — a bridal voyage (perfect to show off the traditional jewelry and formal wear), low church devotion (perfect to show the strength of renegade Lutherans not following the state dictates — until they ran out of patience and moved to Wisconsin), and solid families at work and play.

And the “slice-of-life” scenes seem to just as often be slice-of-death scenes: a stoic family filling their rowboat, oaring in the coffin of a dead daughter, her sister clutching the funeral flowers through the bitter ride, and the harsh season clear on the weathered faces of the heartbroken parents.

And there are the struggles with a puritan 19th-century Protestant society, and the psychological problems that result. Basically (if you spent much time with Edvard Munch), messed-up men who didn’t know how to handle women.

As is the case with so many minor cultures in Europe, the 19th century was a time of resurgence and awakening — Finns holding back Russification, Norwegians distinguishing themselves from the Danes and Swedes. Legitimacy can be founded on epic myths. In each of the galleries, huge murals celebrate the Paul Bunyan beginnings of their nationalities. In The Mid-Winter Sacrifice, the noble Viking king prepares to sacrifice himself to the gods so spring will return and his people will be fed. In The Wild Hunt of Odin,the rowdy horde of Viking-like warriors gallops across the sky, snatching up unsuspecting maidens and the souls of sleepers forever.

I’d suggest that anyone traveling across Scandinavia use each country’s national gallery as a cultural springboard for venturing further from the capital.

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Cheap Tricks in Norway

While gourmet dining in Norway comes with appetite-ruining prices, simple plates of the day (with free, good water and all the potatoes you want) make an affordable, if forgettable, $20 meal — add a beer and your $20 meal becomes a $30 meal.
Enlarge photo		 Norway has very good beer that comes with a price — causing many to split just one.
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When I’m in Norway, I’m always amazed at how clear it is to me that I am with my people. (Three of my grandparents left hard times in Norway for hard times with promise in the USA.) I remember once being in Sweden, thinking, “Yes, these are my people.” Then I crossed the border into Norway and, while wandering through the tidy pedestrian shopping streets in the first town, I realized, “No, those weren’t my people…these are my people.”

While I love traveling here, this year I find my people are somewhere between frugal, cheap, industrious, and greedy. Their tourist trade is built upon a gift from God: incredible nature. Their economy is founded upon another gift from God: lots of oil. Researching and updating my guidebook here — sorting through all the creative marketing tricks masquerading as “deals” while jacking up all the prices listed — I can’t help but think, “These people are doing everything they can to get more business…except lower prices.”

While the rest of Europe seems to be holding prices steady during these tough economic times, everything here costs more kroner. People are moping about how slow business is and don’t see how their prices drive travelers away. For example, the Bergen Card (a 24-hour tourist pass) gets more expensive and less helpful every year. Last year the aquarium was included. This year it’s covered only in the winter. Who comes to Bergen to see an aquarium in the winter?

Coffee (at $4 a cup) tastes both sour and bitter to me. It’s the only place where I “cut the taste” with a couple sugar cubes. The beer, while very good, costs $8 a glass. Budget travelers find some solace in the fact that water is served free and you get seconds on potatoes if you like. So, a $25 dinner plate can easily amount to a $25 meal — perfectly affordable. I found that some fjord-country hotels empathize with the situation and welcome travelers at breakfast to make a sandwich (even providing a little baggie) to go for a light lunch.

Travelers might sense particularly aggressive business practices in fjord country, where there is only tourist travel and no business travel. Hotels, restaurants, and tour companies have a short two-month season in which to make their hay. It’s deadly quiet even in early June or early September. And with the slow economy bringing tourism down this summer, I imagine they are none too confident.

God may have given Norway its incredible scenery and its rich oil reserves, but they need to earn their tourism. Norway, my people, I’m glad you get the cushiest perks in Europe for your high taxes (from great schools and paid paternal leave to a plush retirement). But give your visitors a free public toilet once in a while.

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Two Icy Tongues High Above a Norwegian Fjord

There’s something poetic about summer evenings on a fjord. There’s a mellow, steady, no-shadow light that hardly changes from 8:00 until 11:00 p.m. The steady call of gulls and the lazy gulping of small boats taking on little waves provide a relaxing soundtrack.

When settled into a Victorian-era fjordside hotel, I find myself spending lots of time sitting on porches, mesmerized by Norwegian mountains. Rather than jagged, they’re bald and splotchy, with snow fields on top and characteristic cliffs plunging into inky fjords. Tonight I took my strawberries à la mode onto one such porch and sat there long after my coffee cooled and the ice cream melted.

After dinner, I strolled through the village enjoying the blond cherubs running barefoot through the stalled twilight. Cobbled lanes led past shiplap houses to rock cliffs — gullies and cracks green with trees. Half the sky was taken up by the black rock face of the mountain.

Sitting on a lonely pier, I enjoyed the souvenir stains: black splatters on my khakis — carbon smudges from my glacier hike. Apparently ancient plant matter peppers the glaciers and is eventually exposed as the slow-moving river of ice makes its way down the mountain.

In my research work, I did the two most-promoted “glacier trips,” taking me to the two most-visited tongues of the Jostedal Glacier — northern Europe’s largest glacier. One trip sails down Fjærlandsfjord to Mundal, Walter Mondale’s ancestral home town (and just as exciting), from where an awaiting bus shuttles visitors up to Bøyabreen. The other trip, up another fjord, goes to a tongue of the glacier called Nigardsbreen.

Being here tunes you into the glory and tragedy of nature. Bøyabreen has retreated to the point where it’s actually dishonest to sell a trip there as a “glacier visit.” You look at it in the distance past a lake made by its run-off, listening to your guide, who sounds more like an environmentalist who lost a loved one.

The other, Nigardsbreen, still thunders to the lake at its feet. To reach it, you pay to enter a national park, hop a small boat to cross the lake, then hike over glacier-smoothed rocks to a small group of tents where local guides are lashing spikes onto visitors’ shoes to take them hiking up into the mountain of blue ice with its black speckles.

Roped up with a dozen visitors, we did the hour-long hike. At first I moved gingerly — not trusting my simple, four-spiked crampons. But as long as I walked “with angry steps,” stamping each step deliberately, I could climb steeply up and down with no problem on the ice.

It took me the better part of two days. But now I can say with more certainty than any information I found in print: Bøyabreen is a waste of time. If you like your ice on the rocks, head for Nigardsbreen.

Sleepy Solvorn, under towering rocks with peeling paint, provides a restful, fjordside escape.
Enlarge photo		 The Bøyabreen glacier experience? It sounds good in the ads…but you’ll need binoculars. As glaciers recede, some tour experiences are left on the rocks but without the ice.
Enlarge photo		 Nigardsbreen, a tongue of the Jostedal glacier — Europe’s biggest — offers Norway’s best easy-access glacier experience.
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All roped-up on the one-hour family hike, you’ll be glad you made a potty stop before setting out.
Enlarge photo		 Climbing on the ice with flimsy strap-on, four-toothed crampons, you proceed gingerly. But by making “angry steps” you realize they grip, and soon you are confidently glacier hiking.
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