Bergen, Norway

“We live in a wonderful world that is full of beauty, charm and adventure. There is no end to the adventures we can have if only we seek them with our eyes open.” – Jawaharial Nehru

From the train station in Firenze we went to Bologna. Our flight out of Italy was very, very early the next day so we wanted to stay overnight at some place very close to the airport. So we stayed at an “airport hotel”.  You would never have known you were in Europe.  I don’t know what it is about airport hotels that dictates that they all have to be extremely sterile and uninteresting. Even the food at dinner that night, though supposedly Italian, was flavourless and without interest.

Very early the next morning we arrived at the Bologna airport. Of all the places on our trip this place was the most confusing. The signage was either terrible or non-existent and we spent a good hour in the wrong line-up. It was a complete madhouse. Eventually, though, we did board the right plane to Bergen, Norway.

Bergen is a city on the Bergen Peninsula on the west coast of Norway. The core city, itself, was established before 1070 AD. It has grown a great deal since then and is now the second-most populous city in Norway, after Oslo. Bergen Port is the busiest port in Norway. There were quite a number of different kinds of ships in the afternoon we took a stroll around the piers. The smell of fish and boat diesel replaced the smell of olive trees and lavender that we had grown accustomed to over the past week. But it was bracing and fresh – and considerably cooler than Italy.

We stayed in a hotel just behind the remains of the quays, Bryggen, which is a World Heritage site. This area of Bergen is a series of Hanseatic (merchant guild and market guild) buildings lining the eastern side of the fjord. The original ones dated from 1100, but due to the fact that all of the buildings are wooden and have been subject to quite a few fires, the existing buildings only date back to about the 1700’s. The oldest and tallest building is St Mary’s Church, which was built between 1130 and 1180. 

In our meanderings we stumbled upon a statue of Snorri Sturluson  (born in the 13^th century), the Icelandic historian, poet, and politician who wrote the Heimskringla – a history of the Norwegian kings. A copy of which graces our bookcase, and has for years.

Later that evening we walked about the residential areas up behind the colourful, wooden buildings of Bryggen. Bergen is known as the ‘place of seven mountains’. As we wandered about, in and out of alleys and small streets, we noted a lot of ‘up’. The view out over the fjord was welcome reward, though.

And, in Bergen, we saw our first of many, many trolls.

Our last glimpse of Italy - the Firenze train station

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

The next morning Jesse and Martin drove us to the train station in Firenze (Florence). It is nice to say that we were in Florence but, in truth, we only saw the train station. Parking was impossible and Jesse parked illegally so that we could unload the luggage. Because of that it was a hurried good-bye, hugs all around, and I admit to being a bit teary. These two were such wonderful, interesting, and engaged world-gypsies. Such lovely human beings. I wish them all the good fortune that could possibly come their way.

We were swept into the huge train station and sought a corner hopefully away from most of the hub-bub. With nowhere to sit for the next three hours we moved our suitcases into a small area in front of a billboard and sat on our suitcases. The air was stifling and hot and the noise constant and loud. Nothing to do but stare out at the world around us, fanning ourselves uselessly as our clothes began to adhere damply to our bodies.

I love to people-watch – and the train station in Firenze for a people-watcher is a great delight. So many odd people, so many stories – you get to reflect on what their lives may be like, where they are travelling to, and why. Firenze is an extremely busy train station with as many as fifteen tracks with local and regional trains coming and going constantly. There are places to buy tickets, and other places to validate tickets, and other places where I am not completely sure what to do – and the locals seemed as equally confused as myself.

There are gypsies begging for a Euro or two, and other more devout beggars with heads bowed and hands folded in prayer, their empty coffee cup placed discretely in front of them for change. There was one old gentleman who looked shabby and unkempt, his straggled and snarled hair pulled back in a pony tail, his shirt buttoned awry such that it hung out of his drooping trousers. He shuffled in beat up runners around and around the parameter of the station, each lap completed with a concentrated gaze that never wavered. He never once asked for money nor had any cup or sign. Perhaps he was just an old poor man who found that station a weather-protected place to walk.

I saw, too, very wealthy people, laden with designer shopping bags – all very large but light as each just contained one pricey scarf, or a small bottle of perfume – with their small dogs perambulating behind them. They moved from ticket kiosk, to validation machine, to cappuccino shop, to the toilets, back to the cappuccino shop, into the line ups for the train, and finally boarding the train – the little dogs boarding confidently and sedately.

I saw a tall, lanky bald man. He wore a bright yellow silk shirt, purple suspenders, lavender pants. His reddish suit jacket he carried over his shoulder. His voluminous scarf was paisley, his glasses vividly red-framed. He wore sandal on bare, hairy feet and his pants were a good three inches too short (perhaps he really didn’t need the suspenders). He carried a very conservative, obviously hand-made leather briefcase from which protruded several files. He caused not so much as a second glance.

I saw an East Indian family, with six children, laden with beach-going paraphernalia  - buckets and spades, picnic hamper, and a large beach umbrella that kept falling to the floor and swung unnervingly near my head. They spoke in loud, rapid, staccato Italian; the mother wore a gorgeous turmeric-coloured sari; the teenaged girl wore large cross-shaped earrings. One of the boys carried a small poodle in one hand and played games on his cell-phone in the other.

I was too nervous to take photos, it would have been difficult to take shots discretely where we were sitting. I don’t think I will ever have the nerve to be a street photographer. Instead I wrote little notes about the people I saw and hope that you can picture them.

San Felice and Large Bumble Bees

“You may have the universe if I may have Italy.” – Giuseppe Verdi

Our last day at our last villa (a converted monastery). I am exhausted after last night’s Palio abandon (and, in truth, all the extra walking trying to locate our restaurant around the bedlam). I tell Barry and the guys to go on without me and I will stay at the villa. They will be visiting the 12^th century village of Radda in Chianti and finishing with an exhilarating down hill ride of 20 kilometers through the oak and chestnut forests that cloak the steep hillsides.

I meander around the premises and out into the olive orchard. The gardener there takes the opportunity to take a break from his work and tell me about the olive trees. He tells me that the soil, type of tree grown, amount of sunshine (and for that matter, the amount of rain) all play a part in determining the flavor of the oil. Each of the different olive trees (though, to me, they all looked the same) has specific characteristics. He told me they grow best in clay soil though, actually, they will grow anywhere but then there is no guarantee of a crop. I told him I love the olive tree for its sculptural trunk and branches. He said he thought olive trees are particularly ugly. Ah well, each to their own taste. When I told him that I would really miss Italy he said that Italians drink a concoction of olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice in the winter to raise their spirits. I’ll have to try that.

I wander to the edge of the property and see the inevitable Cypress trees in the distance. Originally brought to Italy from Persia by the Etruscans, Cypress trees can live up to 2,000 years. We saw them everywhere – bordering fields instead of fences, lining the (very long) driveways up to red-bricked villas, and in strange little copses here and there where Martin told me the Etruscans had planted them around their sacred burial sites.

Mid-afternoon and all stills. The birdsong is less, and a slight breeze moves tree branches – though it is a warm breeze and offers no relief from the heat. The bell in the old abbey tower chimes two. 

A cat lies curled under a bush, and does no more than give a soporific twitch of his whiskers when the birds hop close. The smell of olive leaves is faint but close. The villa is surrounded by frangipani, of all colours, and all sizes, the odour like fresh cut peaches. I take a deep breath, sit back against an olive tree and think – here I am in Italy, in magical Tuscany surrounded by the scent of frangipani and jasmine, mourning doves calling and pecking at the stones at my feet, the swallows (always swallows) swooping and diving and playing chicken with the top of my head. Earlier in the week, Jesse had told me about a bright blue/black bee, a kind of carpenter bee. He said it is a solitary bee, it doesn’t live in hives, but it does the same job – it is a pollinator. He hoped I would see one. As I sat reading a large object buzzed by and settled in the lavender. Very large, bright iridescent blue. An Italian Black Bumble Bee. Gorgeous. So happy I got to see one before leaving Italy.

The guys return from their cycling. Barry and I go to have a wine tasting at the villa’s own winery. The vintner takes us out to the vineyard and describes the different varieties and explains their method of only taking three bunches of grapes off of each plant. He then takes us through the cellars and talks about his oak barrels (Slovenian oak) and the methods to obtain different kinds of wine. It is fascinating stuff – and very complicated. He is also so very, very proud of his wines. It is obvious he loves his work. We drink some of the wine, stagger back to our room to dress for dinner. 

After dinner we walk back to our room through the night-lit abbey grounds. Tomorrow we will be taken to Firenze (Florence) to catch our train out of Italy. A study in people watching and then on to Norway.