GRAND TOUR OF EUROPE: June 24 Norway

Thursday June 24 
OSLO, NORWAY
At 7.30am we arrived at Oslo East Station, now amalgamated into Sentralstasjon, Oslo's Central Station. Here Donna and I sorted out our finances over a cafe breakfast.  It was delicious and just what we had both needed after spending overnight on a train.

We then wasted a frustrating hour, or more, trying to find the Tourist Information Centre, finally  locating it, a mile from the station, through a maze of city streets. I sincerely hope that it has since been moved to a more convenient location to Oslo's Central Station - one that tourists can find without needing to be language or cypher experts!

By 9.30am, Donna and I were finally armed with pamphlets, and a map of the city and our earlier frustrations soon evaporated in the excitement of a busily culture-laden day of activities.
Full of youthful enthusiasm and confidence, we headed directly for the Munch Museum to Edvard Munch's masterpiece "The Scream"

Edvard Munch

by kind courtesy of 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scream

Edvard Munch was never married. But he referred to his paintings as "his children" and could not bear to be parted from them.  He lived a solitary life on his estate outside Oslo for the last 27 years of his life. Although his reputations inceased, he chose to remain isolated, surrounding himself with the entire panoply of his lifetime of creations.

When he died in 1944, at the age of 80, the authorities discovered, hidden behind locked doors on the second floor of his house, a collection of 1,008 paintings, 4,443 drawings and 15,391 prints, as well as woodcuts, etchings, lithographs, lithographic stones, woodcut blocks, copperplates and photographs.

The final irony of Munch's life is that today, he is famous as the creator of a single image that has all but obscured his lifelong influence and achievements as a pioneer painter and printmaker.

The Scream is the artist's most famous image. He reproduced it many times, and in different media: painting, drawings and prints. In his diary, in an entry headed, Nice 22 January 1892, Munch described his inspiration for the image: 

One evening, I was walking along a path, the city was on one side and the fjord below. I felt tired and ill. I stopped and looked out over the fjord - the sun was setting and the clouds turning blood red. I sensed a scream passing through nature; it seemed to me that I heard the scream. I painted this picture, painted the clouds as actual blood. The colour shrieked. This became The Scream. 

the above excerpt taken from:   

www.artic.edu/aic/collections/exhibitions/Munch/resource/171

THE SCREAM (press link)
by kind courtesy of http://www.edvard-munch.com/Paintings/anxiety/scream_3.jpg

It was an epic moment for me to be there just feeling the raw emotion of Munch's masterpiece. It was centrally placed, commanding an uninterrupted view from two adjacent directions. Initially, I was surprised by its size, and gazed at it for a long time. The subject matter itself soon commanded all my attention, inexorably drawing me, inviting me to identify with Nature's Scream.

Donna's tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality, reminding me that it was time for us to leave the Munch Gallery, and walk back to the centre of Oslo to see the famous City Hall.

OSLO CITY HALL

photo by kind courtesy of www.ardenwebsales.com

Every year, on December 10, the Nobel Peace Prize is awarded during a ceremony at Oslo's impressive City Hall, a modern structure that captures the history and culture of Norway. 

photo by kind courtesy of www.mayang.com 

The brick facade of Oslo City Hall is decorated with historical themes. Two tall towers and an enormous clock echo the design of traditional northern-European town halls.

the above excerpt taken from

http://architecture.about.com/od/greatbuildings/ss/OsloCityHall.htm

The warm sunshine beckoned us both outdoors. So after taking in the glorious interior of the Oslo City Hall, we took the tram to

FROGNOR PARK

by kind courtesy of http://oslo-norway.ca/attractions/frognerparken.html

The tram ride was short. And the 26C (82F) sunshine, tempered by a warm breeze, ensured that our extended ramble through Frognor Park was a most enjoyable outdoor experience.

This beautiful urban park in Oslo is where the world-famous Vigelandsparken is situated. The park contains 200 amazing fountains and sculptures created by Gustav Vigeland, that are integrated into the beautiful setting.

Gustav Vigeland (1869-1943) worked on the sculpture park from 1924 until his death in 1943.  Frogner Park is a "must-see" for all visitors to Oslo.

As I had done many times in the parks of central London, I shed my shoes and walked barefoot through the soft, cool grass. For the few minutes it took to reach Vigeland's Sculptures, my feet were cool, relaxed and happy.  Then it was back to concrete walkways which necessitated sneakers. But seeing Vigeland's epic outdoor exhibit close up was worth all the effort involved in getting there.

VIGELAND SCULPTURES 

The Vigeland Sculptures depicts human experience, and expresses through bronze, granite and cast iron, the joys and sorrows, frailty, hardship, hopes and humour of everyday life.  Each figure, or group of figures, evocatively depicts human emotion to convey how friendships and family connections create meaning in the Circle of Life.

Vigelandsparken is one of Norway's most visited attractions. The unique sculpture park is the life work of sculptor Gustav Vigeland, who also designed the Nobel Peace Prize Medal.  With more than 200 sculptures, in three different media, Vigeland was also responsible for the design and architectural outline of the park: a monumental artistic creation with a human message that is well worth seeing.

 above excerpt taken from
http://www.visitoslo.com/en/product/?TLp=181601&Vigeland-Sculpture-Park

photo by kind courtesy of  www.activistchat.com 

 Press here to see more photos of the inspirational Vigeland Sculptures 

Frognor Park is so extensive that it took several hours for us to properly appreciate the sculptures.  Indeed, we became so engrossed with the massive exhibit that we'd completely missed having lunch. So we decided to take the tram to the town centre, where we enjoyed an early smorbrod supper.

by kind courtesy of scandikitchen.typepad.com 

Suitably fortified, Donna and I decided to spend the rest of that afternoon and evening in separate pursuits and meet at the train later. I then caught the ferry to the 

Bygdoy Peninsula

home of the Kon-tiki, the raft used by Thor Heyerdhal to sail across the Pacific Ocean.

by kind courtesy of
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Bygd%C3%B8y_lovely.jpg

KON-TIKI

Because I had lingered in Frognor Park, I arrived at the Kon-Tiki with only a few minutes to spare before the exhibit closed for the day.  
by kind courtesy of www.kon-tiki.no

I would have dearly liked to spend more time in the presence of Thor Hyerdahl's iconic raft. But revelling in its voyage and adventure was not to be.  How quickly time seemed to vanish that day.

Reluctantly leaving the museum at 6.30pm, I rambled along the coastline to the

Norsk Folkemuseum 
which is part of the Norsk Museum of Cultural History
by kind courtesy of 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Norsk_folkemuseum_0.jpg

There I saw Norwegian national houses in   picturesque village setting, and happily watched lively displays of folk dancing till 8pm

by kind courtesy of 
http://www.bestourism.com/img/items/big/7382/Norwegian-Museum-of-Cultural-History_Folk-dances_11484.jpg

Thoroughly exhausted and quite time-disoriented, I left the museum. Then, I climbed a cliff, clambering over rocks like a mountain goat.

Upon arriving at the top of that 'cliff', I inadvertently entered private property and, worse, gate-crashed someone's grand garden party.

by kind courtesy of

http://www.victoriana.com/gardening/images/victorianagardenparty.jpg

Almost a hundred people were gathered in an exquisitely tended garden. Women were dressed in long Victorian laceand wore splendid hats in addition to the obligatory parasol. I thought perhaps a theatre group were practising a play there, till I noticed the lavish spread that had been provided.

Couples and small groups of friends were quietly sharing refreshments at large ornate iron tables that perched at the edge of the manicured lawn. Except for the quantity and style of food upon the table, the entire scene felt more English than Norwegian to me!

My body was living in 1976, yet my mind was witnessing
an idyllic scene from a hundred years earlier.
Was the long Scandinavian summer twilight
playing tricks on my perception of time?
Where was I?  
Or more precisely - WHEN was I?

Time seemed to be slipping, slipping.... 
but into the past, not the future!

I had had no intention of intruding upon this, or any, gathering. And much as I was curious about what exactly was happening there, time was of the essence. To catch the last ferry of the day back to the city, I had to navigate a path through that garden to the entry gate of the property.  I could not return from whence I had come. There simply wasn't enough time!

Moving hurriedly and awkwardly through the throng of polite society, I mumbled abject apologies for my intrusio. Then I walked, as quickly as possible, towards the ornately carved gates of what seemed to be an extensive country estate.  Later, when I looked at my map for its name, it seemed not to exist.

With no time to ponder where or 'when' I had visited or what had just happened, I reached the road and thumbed a ride to the 8.20pm ferry.  It was the last ferry of the day off that peninsula.

For once in my life, I was at a loss for words, but very happy not to have been asked to explain myself! How could I, when I didn't have any idea what had just happened to me.

by kind courtesy of 
http://www.visitoslo.com/en/product/?TLp=181623

FERRY WEDDING
I anticipated using the short ferry journey to centre myself and make sense of my odd experience.

But it was a small boat, and I was the only 'tourist' on board.  So when the other three passengers struck up a friendly conversation in English with me, it would have been churlish not to reply.

Dagfin, Ghost and Anna were three English-speaking Norwegians who were working and studying in Oslo.

Dagfin was very playful and amusing, and he was also unabashedly attracted to my dark looks. Announcing to his friends that fate had brought us together 'at sea' so that we could be married, Dagfin tied together our sneaker shoelaces.  Once we were both thoroughly immobilized, he jokingly announced that, by Norwegian Maritime Law, we were now officially married!  Amazingly, my participation in this event had been totally unnecessary!

In the space of 10 minutes, our brief encounter had precipitated an umpromptu maritime wedding! Very weird indeed! But then my entire evening felt like I'd stepped into an alternate dimension.

The ridiculousness of Dagfin's execution of our brief and highly irregular marriage ceremony made all aboard chuckle, which was the perfect way to break my reverie and end a very busy day of sight-seeing.

Dagfin's antics aside, my three new friends seemed like a level-headed, interesting group of intellectuals with whom to converse for an hour or so that evening. So, when the ferry docked and they invited me for drinks, I happily agreed to accompany them.  My only request was that they escort me to Sentralstasjon for my train connection to Copenhagen on time....which they did.

10.40 TO COPENHAGEN
by kind courtesy of http://grist.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/scandinavia_map.jpg

As I was retrieving my back pack from the station locker, my travel companion met me with vexing news.  Donna had arrived early, intent on reserving our couchettes for that night's journey.  But she  discovered that there were not enough couchettes for all the passengers travelling first-class.  On the contrary, they were at a premium and thus available only on a first-come-first-served basis.

More practised travellers knew this, so all couchettes on the Oslo to Copenhagen train had sold out that morning, while Donna and I were eating a leisurely breakfast!  No wonder the cafe had been so empty!

Donna and I were thus forced to travel in a 2nd class carriage, since all 1st class carriages were made up with couchettes.  Instead of a horizontal and restful night's sleep after our busy day of sight-seeing, we had to catch naps whilst sitting upright on the incredibly uncomfortable second class seats. There were no reclining seats in 2nd Class, and not much padding on them either.

I tried to meditate, but in vain. Between crying infants and partying teenagers, there was little peace to be had in our carriage.  It was even difficult to ponder the experiences of my busy but interesting day in Oslo. And when I finally did sleep, my dream was downright bizarre!

I was at a lavish outdoor Victorian wedding, set in Frognor Park. Half the guests were in Victorian finery while the rest were dressed like ancient Vikings. The latter somehow managed to sail their full-sized ships through each of the fountains in Frognor Park, whilst simultaneously carousing with tourists amid the Vigeland sculptures. There was more, but you get the gist!

Despite the vivid adventures of my technicolor dream world, to say we enjoyed the ride to Copenhagen would be a gross overstatement. But Donna and I did have some amazing memories of our jam-packed day in Oslo to share, during the first part of our journey south above Oslo harbour and Fjord.

Donna had been stunned enough to learn that I had been "married" on a ferry! So I decided not tell her that I gate-crashed a Victorian Garden party.  She already thought of me as weird and reckless, and I was in no hurry to confirm her assessment of my character!

The scenery was spectacular and Scandinavia's summer sunshine meant we could actually see the view, even though it was almost midnight.

by kind courtesy of oslo-norway.ca 

To pass time, I mentally calculated the distance travelled from London to Copenhagen, our next destination. Discounting the miles we walked around towns and cities, to-from-or-within their exhibits, I estimated we covered a staggering  5395km or 3270 miles of territory by rail, ferry and airplane.

That distance is equivalent to one-eighth of our planet's circumference. And we'd only been travelling for one week.

No wonder we were so tired!  

Thankfully, relief was at hand. We were going
to Denmark specifically to relax and play!

At least that was my intention

NEXT WEEK!

June 25-26
Denmark

Auntie Stine's Cottage

Kronberg (Hamlet's) Castle

Sex on the Beach

Tivoli 

Romance


GRAND TOUR OF EUROPE June 25-26 DENMARK

Chapter 7 - Day 8:Tangier to Fes (230 miles)

Day 8 Tangier to Fes  (230 miles via coast route)

I had just enjoyed the best sleep ever, waking up so early that the sky was only just brightening.

  

Anton and his camera had already left the tent. So I changed into my new Moroccan djellaba before heading out to greet the morning.

After so many dreary months of wearing scratchy winter woolens in England, the djellaba's soft cotton felt so gentle against my skin.  

Stepping outside, the air was chillier than expected and I considered grabbing my long woolen cardigan. But I was really counting on the soon-to-be-rising sun to warm me up. So till then, physical exercise would help ward off the chill.

A series of low dunes, to the west, sheltered our camp from the worst of Atlantic Ocean gusts. And completely unaware of just how gusty those winds would be near the top of it, I chose to climb up the nearest dune. 

I could already taste the salt in the air, and was so eager for my first sunrise glimpse of the Atlantic lapping at the edge of the African continent that I forged ahead, literally throwing caution to the wind!

In hindsight, my lightweight djellaba - while a romantic notion - was completely the wrong choice of garment for climbing a dune!  But not until an errant gust threatened to rip my clothing from my body, did I realize my folly.  

Holy Hannah that wind was strong!  

Before I could stop it, the wind blew underneath my garment, expanding it like a conical sail.  I had to act quickly to wrap my djellaba more closely around my hips and thighs, to avoid flashing the entire campsite

Thank heavens the other campers were still sleeping,

for I surely did NOT need witnesses to that embarrassing moment.

My struggle to stand upright, atop that dune, had, however, been worth every effort, as I was immediately rewarded by a sight one would never, ever, see in England.

camel photo by kind courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/sallyrango/5061545997

A caravan of camels was being ushered down the beach by a boy, with a stick! 

This camel train made no audible sound, and the animals seemed resigned to the journey, and also to their handler.

Oh, how I wished I'd remembered to bring my camera with me!

At that precise moment,  I spied Anton, partly hidden on the beach side of the dune, clicking his camera furiously as the camels passed by him.  

Surprised not to have noticed him there before, I now surveyed the area more closely. Those undulating dunes offered a photographer many sheltered nooks. And those strong ocean winds drowned out all but the most robust sounds.

To the west, the slow dawn painted the water's edge in a sheen of silver, for the sun had not yet risen to turn it into gold. 

The sharp, chill wind made me shiver. But I couldn't leave yet - the sun would surely rise behind me above the eastern horizon, if I could stand shivering for just one more minute!

Only I could freeze 

 in April in Morocco!

During England's frigid winters, I stayed warm with friends in heated discotheques!  So, I reasoned, the physical gyrations that worked for me in London, would also work for me in Tangier!

photo by kind courtesy of cynicalidealism.tumblr.com

Dancing like a mad lady, I played on and with the wind. Using my hands to calm the sail-like momentum created by twirling, I managed to remain decently clad.

But if I paused, a mischievous gust would flip my dress up.  So I twirled a lot, stopping only when I was comfortably warm.

Anton and his cameras completely disappeared from my sight after the camels had passed by us.

I knew he had to be somewhere close-by waiting to take his 'famed' sunrise photos. But he did not call out to me and, since the beach and wind provided excellent shelter, I could neither see nor hear him any more.   

Struggling to remain clothed despite the wind, I eventually wound my djellaba tightly around body, then took stock of my surroundings. 

photo by kind courtesy of www.moroccansands.com                 

Ahead was a broad sandy beach, the tide now retreating. Smoother at the water's edge, the sand became darker and coarser as beach met dune grasses. 

Suddenly, a startling 
 b r i l l i a n c e 
illuminated the scene.

I watched in awe, as the sun painted the ocean with gold, enjoying the play of light on the distant waves. That sleepy and surreal, soft and silvery morning, had suddenly burst into full Technicolor glory.

The sun's warmth on my back was most reassuring!  This day had most definitely begun! I was so excited I couldn't wait to get back to the camp and wake everyone up.  I was eager to begin the final leg of our journey to Fes.

 

Making a mental note to ask Anton to send me a copy of his camel and sunrise photographs, after he'd processed and developed his film, I happily skipped down the dune and back to camp.

As it happened, there was no need for me to awaken anyone! Stragglers, with morning hair, were already heading to and from the showers.  When camping, sunshine is a powerful alarm clock.

By the time I had rolled up my sleeping bag, taken a hot shower, and added much needed underwear and my thick, warm, long cardigan to my thin djellaba, I was ravenously hungry. 

We were again seated at the same long picnic table at which we had eaten supper the night before. It was set for breakfast, and already laden with food, supplied and prepared by our British campsite hosts.  

I was happily surprised to see a big pot of hot porridge brought to the table along with the toast and tea - in Morocco yet!  But surprise didn't prevent me from helping myself to a large bowlful, so soon I felt warm and cosy inside and out. 

photo by kind courtesy of  allthingsherbal.com

The milk was goat's milk and tasted quite different from the pasteurized cow's milk, sold in glass bottles, in Britain.

But that morning, on that Tangier beach, cold raw goat's milk was the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor breakfast.

photo by kind courtesy of cie-oxford.com

Our hosts joined us with their cups of tea, to let us know that we needed to reset our clocks and watches before leaving Tangier for Fes that morning.

We had completely overlooked the fact that 

Morocco observes Greenwhich Mean Time 

throughout the whole year.

Our timepieces, therefore, needed to be adjusted back to GMT - an hour earlier than British Daylight Savings Time and a full 2 hours earlier than Spanish time. Though our bodies thought it was 8am, local time in Morocco was only 6am! 

Our hosts told us that, because of the time change, they had been preparing breakfast at dawn on the first morning, for every summer group that camped with them - for the last 16 years. 

I was impressed that they had taken the time to make us porridge on this chilly morning too!  Bless them! 

The previous night,  our two drivers had ordered a huge picnic lunch for all of us, which we now collected and would eat en route to Fes.  

 photo by kind courtesy of worldatlas.com

The sunny day was so welcoming we unanimously decide to take the scenic route along the coast, driving south towards Rabat before turning eastwards towards Fes.

The temperature rose substantially, as we drove towards the interior desert region. Soon able to shed my bulky cardigan, I decided that wearing a light cotton djellaba had, after all, been the correct choice of apparel for that day.

Motoring inland, I noticed a lot of old Mercedes trucks and cars around.  Naively, I expected to see camel trains, but not German-built automobiles.

Our drivers explained that when they had money, Moroccans spent it on cars and trucks. Much like the rest of the world, it seemed.

It was a long, slow drive to Fes, with several stops for photos, but we eventually ate our picnic lunch in an orange grove, en route to our destination city.  

Along with the usual sandwiches, for which the British are famous, our hosts had packed some local fruits and delicacies, like figs and Moroccan tomatoes!  

Moroccan tomatoes photo by kind courtesy of freshtomatoesexport.com

In Morocco, tomatoes grow as large as grapefruit, and were sweeter than any tomato I had ever eaten.  

Although they added an unexpectedly sweet flavour burst to our salad, I preferred to eat them as a fruit. So I would cut one tomato in half for dessert, sharing the other half with someone else.

Eaten alone, our Moroccan tomatoes became a quick and delicious treat, as well as a high vitamin content, anti-oxidant snack that helped to keep all of us healthy during our stay in exotic Morocco.

Not surprisingly, Morocco is today one the largest exporters in world of tomatoes and an unchallenged product leader in terms of Moroccan truck farming.

Orange Grove photo by kind courtesy of en.wikipedia.org

Picnicking in an orange grove was another 'first' for me.  

The collective skins of so many fruits still growing on the tree have such an especially pungent aroma.  The clean, crisp scent was not at all musty or unpleasant, but lifted our spirits, turning that picnic surrounded by orange trees into an aromatherapy treat for us all.

  

Orange’s greatest claim to aromatherapy fame is its ability to affect moods and to lower high blood pressure. In fact, just sniffing it lowers blood pressure a couple points. You don’t even need to buy the essential oil; simply peeling an orange and inhaling its aroma releases its beneficial effects.

 Of course, aromatherapy was still 

a decade or so away from being trendy

One of the girls wanted to pick an orange from the tree, just to taste how sweet it was compared with Moroccan tomatoes.  But our drivers actively discouraged such pilfering, reminding us all that the laws for theft - even of a single orange - are much more stringent on the African continent than in Europe.

So many things to know and 

remember, when travelling!

for more information about Morocco, press this link

We arrived in Fes by mid-afternoon and were immediately greeted by an energetic 10 year old boy with shining eyes and the widest smile ever seen.  

His name was Azim, and he informed us that he would be our guide while we were in Fes.  And to prove that he was trustworthy, his uncle - the Police Commissioner - had invited all of us to his home for 'refreshments' on our last evening in Fes.  

WOW!  

What a warm welcome!

Azim, though young in years, was an animated, delightful soul who already spoke several languages fluently, including English, French, Spanish and Arabic.  

Since Morocco's national languages are Arabic and French, his language skills alone, could prove very useful.  But Azim assured us that he was also "a most efficient and well-informed guide" for our travelling crew.  And because he already liked us, he was willing going to give us a BIG discount!

We were powerless to resist the charm and enthusiasm of this pint-sized business magnate!

Azim then jumped aboard the Love Bus and guided us to our gated and guarded campground, informing us that the guards had real guns with real bullets in them, so we would be safe there.

He also confided the best times and places for shopping and sightseeing, where to eat and where to purchase the exact kinds of merchandise we wanted.

He then cheekily told our drivers that he would personally be willing to escort any unescorted ladies who required his services during our visit to Fes.  

This precocious 10-year old behaved more like a well-seasoned entrepreneur than like any child of my acquaintance. By the efficient manner in which he delivered pertinent information, I had the feeling he'd been a liaison for tourists since he was a toddler.

Before he left us alone to set up our camp and relax for the evening, Azim reiterated that, in Fes, any lady not escorted by a gentleman, risked being abducted or worse.

Was he kidding?  No, he was not...

Our drivers had been similarly forewarned, and insisted that, whenever she wanted to leave the campsite, each lady should do so only in the company of her chosen bodyguard. Anton smiled at me then, and I knew, without words, that he would be my personal bodyguard in Fes! 

Having been reassured of our security at camp, we were grateful to learn that our modern campground offered modern conveniences!  In a week of one night stops, there had been no time to do laundry.  But here in Fes, we had all the essentials -  hot showers, throne toilets - yeah! - working laundry machines and a swimming pool. 

photo by kind courtesy of http://www.motodreamers.com

Early evening temperatures in camp were in the balmy 70s.  So, whilst waiting for our washing machines to finish their loads, a few of us enjoyed a leisurely swim in the clean, clear pool. 

It was a sanitary, civilized and relaxing introduction to Fes.  And, as an added bonus, even the heaviest denim jeans dried to a crisp in that semi-arid climate.

After swimming, we ate lightly, finishing the remainder of our substantial lunch pack! Then we completed our laundry and took to our tents.  

Sleep came easily to us all that night.  Our ultra early start, followed by a marathon day of driving plus the 2-hour time change meant we were asleep much earlier than most of the other travellers that night. But we did not care - dreamland beckoned and we willingly surrendered.

As a group, we were about to enjoy three glorious days in Fes. We were all eager to begin exploring! And I had rarely felt as excited about my life as I did then.  

Less than 24 hours later, our youthful enthusiasm would provoke some alarming life lessons that nobody would soon forget.

Coming Soon! 

Section 3 - Chapter 8

Fes  (Days 1)

 Medina, Mint tea, Maniacs and Meditation,

  My Road to Morocco - Day 9