We were green, green, green. So very, very green. Right off the boat. Literally.

Having met that summer in Middlebury, we sailed on the Liberté that fall of 1961 and stopped in Paris on the way to Mainz for the year, so we were right “off the boat”. Bogart told Bergman in Casablanca “We’ll always have Paris”. Well, so will Beverly and I. We were at least wise enough to plan a stay of ten memorable days in Paris, just doing whatever we wanted, and actually, we did have enough travel and language experience between us to find our way around without bumping into too many walls. We found a simple, but comfortable room on the Left Bank (bathroom down the hall, of course, to lower the room price) at the Hôtel Paris-Latin in the Rue Monge. It’s not there any more. We checked years later. That I remember the name of the hotel and the street shows that this visit was memorable. Believe it or not, we always even remembered the room number, 51. The reason why was simple. We didn’t care, at least at that time, for French café au lait, served in those huge cups that looked like soup bowls with handles, so we ordered hot chocolate for breakfast, which was delivered by the maid to the room (I guess the simple hotel didn’t even have a breakfast room). At the time, Beverly was our French speaker, so she’d get on the phone in the morning and always say the same thing: “Deux petits déjeûners avec du chocolat à la chambre cinquante-et-un (51)”. After a few days, I could have faked saying it as well, but she was our French speaker of record. It was dark and dreary in Paris moving further into October, but we didn’t mind in the slightest, and enjoyed our visit.

We left Paris for Mainz on the overnight train out of the Gare de l’Est. Of course, sitting up all night on the redeye while trying to sleep was cheaper, just as we did later on at Christmas going to Copenhagen. We had lots of bags with us in Paris, since we were going to Germany for a year, so we had to check our luggage. Our French speaker said to the baggage handler at the Gare de l’Est “Ces bagages vont à Mainz”, and we watched as he wrote something different on the tags. We objected via our French speaker: “Non, non, à MAINZ, à MAINZ!”. “Oui, oui”, he replied, À Mayence, à Mayence!”. So the greenhorns learned from experience that Mainz was called Mayence in French. Who’d have thought. That wouldn’t happen today. Green, green, green. So very, very green. But we had a great time.

That Christmas, after meeting Bev’s parents in Copenhagen, who had flown in from Minneapolis, we all drove to Sweden. On the way to the relatives, we started the visiting. We stopped in Landskrona right across the Öresund to visit family acquaintances. Once we got to the relatives, it’s only a minor exaggeration to say in the next days we went down the road to visit one neighbor after the other, and after we finished with Horda, we started with the neighbors in the next town. At least it seemed like that.

Bev’s father had been having some leg trouble, and that very first night visiting those acquaintances in Landskrona he was telling about it in Swedish. I learned on the spot that “mitt ben (E as in cafE)” means “my leg”, not only from context, since he was pointing to it, but because in German it’s “mein Bein”. He then said what Beverly and I assumed was “Mitt ben swelled up”. Beverly was afraid that, when he got excited, he might mix English into his Swedish, so she interrupted him, saying so, to which he said, no, no, what he said was Swedish, and everyone else agreed. Even though we knew of the similarity of Germanic languages, and had even understood mitt ben from mein Bein, only then did we see even more similarity between Swedish and English. What he had said was “Mitt ben svällde upp”. The greenhorns learned slowly.Green, green, green.

We needed a break during that Christmas week from all the visiting and visiting and visiting with neighbors we didn’t know, so that’s when Beverly and I decided on the spur of the moment to go to Oslo for a few days. The relatives took us to the station in Värnamo and arranged our rail tickets, and off we went. By that time of year, central Sweden had daylight only between 10 and 2 (by the time we went further up north to Oslo there was even less daylight), so off we went in the darkness. It was just a few hours, with most of the rail trip being on the Swedish side. When we crossed the border, very close to Oslo, the Norwegian conductor wanted to see our tickets. It turned out the relatives had somehow helped us buy round-trip tickets to the border only, and not all the way to Oslo. It was upsetting at this time, because we weren’t sure we had enough money, but we worked it out. Never again would we be so green as to let others make arrangements for us. Our motto remains to this day: if you want something done right, do it yourself. But then we were green, green, green.

That trip we enjoyed a very dark and snow-covered Oslo, just the two of us, having just gotten engaged, finally being away from all the others. I don’t suppose Bogart ever told Bergman “We’ll always have Oslo”, but at least we were able to say that. And one of the most durable Oslo memories involves canned pears.

At at least one, and possibly two dinners at that time, we spotted something on the Norwegian dessert menu named in French Poire Glacée Belle Hélène, which we ordered and enjoyed. It was half a canned pear (poire), with ice cream (glacée), and whipped cream and such. Actually it was a banana split with a pear replacing the banana. But it seemed so very, very elegant to have something named in French on a Norwegian menu. (I supposed we were very, very easily impressed, being so green.) We later found it elsewhere, I think in Germany, but then never again since. Once we were married, Beverly made it as dessert a couple of times.

We got better at travel planning and at languages after we had enough experience, and were no longer green. In the chilly spring we took the train down to Italy (the redeye both ways), and I have distinct memories of the two of us wearing topcoats in Piazza San Marco in Venice, feeding the pigeons, with pigeons on Beverly’s head, shoulders, and outstretched arms. But by then we were getting more used to travel, and to managing in other languages, including Italian. But first we had had Paris. And Oslo.

Oslo   I’ll remind the reader, who now should return from 1961 to 2006, of the structure of this current trip. I had scheduled the Norwegian coastal tour and trip to Spitsbergen on the Deutschland first, then the return to New York on the QM2. In between the two there was time to go back to Denmark and Sweden (including the Göta Canal trip), with a quick run to Finland and down the Baltic to Germany to get on the QM2. But there was still a hole in the plans. The Deutschland would go up the west coast of Norway, which is the best part, and would even make a quick stop in Bergen, but, although I wanted to quickly see Oslo again, and wanted some extra time in Bergen, that wouldn’t have been enough to add on the six extra days at the beginning before sailing. I had always wanted to see Flåm and ride the Flåmsbana. We couldn’t on the 1973 trip because we were driving and didn’t do any rail trips. Carpe diem! told me now or never, so here I sit writing in Bergen, even though I’ll be back here again next week.

In New York I took the Air Train to the airport. I’d started doing that to Kennedy last year, taking the subway to Penn Station, the Long Island Rail Road (they’ve always liked to, quite uniquely, spell it as two words) to the major hub of Jamaica, from which the automated Air Train, running on rubber wheels, runs to all terminals at Kennedy. This time I tried it to Newark for the first time, and it worked just as well. From Penn Station, New Jersey Transit runs trains through downtown Newark, which then stop at the Newark Airport station, where you connect to the Air Train.

The direct flight on Continental to Oslo that I’d found was fine, considering it was going to involve jet lag, and worse, in that horrible direction, east. It left at 8:15, and after dinner, you tried to sleep sitting up (transatlantic flights are always redeyes), lost six hours of sleep because of the time zones, flew for 6-7 hours, and then it was late morning in Oslo. Rise and shine. Ha!

The customs official asked me if I was in Norway on business. No, I said, pleasure, and thinking quickly, added “It’s always a pleasure to visit Norway”. He liked that, laughed, and thanked me. It was fun. I bought a ticket on the airport express train, and, frankly, as nice as New York’s two Air Trains are, the Oslo one was better. The Oslo train was sleek and modern, pulled in right under the air terminal, and zipped in 19 minutes to Oslo’s Sentralstasjon (sen.TRAHL.sta.SHOON).

Let me start right off shifting from travel to language, since that previous name must have caused some jaws to drop. I have always been a proponent of spelling reform (even though English might be a hopeless case, although it needs it most [after Irish Gaelic]), and Norwegian has made great strides simplifying its spelling, beyond other Scandinavian languages. C is an uncommon letter in Scandinavian. Where it represents a K, most Germanic languages write it as such. But Norwegian is the only one which, where C sounds like an S, writes it as one. Stockholm’s main Station is Central, Oslo’s is Sentral. Elevator inspectors post a “sertifikat” of inspection on the wall.

Z is also rare in Scandinavian, and sounds like an S. Well, in Norway you might come across a pedestrian “sone”.

X is useless in any language. Except for mathematical use, and most likely, when talking about x-rays, Norwegian writes “ekstra” and “maksimum”. On the elevator it said “Maks 6 personer”. (Don’t you love those R plurals?) It even goes for native Germanic words. English may write lox and Swedish lax (also gravlax), but Norwegian has laks and gravlaks.

Generally, Scandinavian uses SJ for the SH sound. Therefore, when it comes to endings like –tion and –sion, you will find spellings like stasjon and internasjonal. Might you want to snack on some sjokolade after lunsj? You might object here, but there’s no CH sound either, so even the borrowed English word is pronounced lunsh, hence the above spelling. And you can always go for assistance to the Informasjonssenter.

By the way, before I left I checked on Norwegian pronunciation. One point that came up was that the combination of sounds –SL- comes out instead –SHL-. Therefore, the Swedes (and probably Danes) may call it OOssloo, but the Norwegians themselves call it OOshloo. I checked with someone, and that’s exactly how he pronounced it.

There is a lot less indepence in Norwegian history than you may be aware of. Norway was ruled by Denmark from 1397 until 1814, when, since Denmark had been on the wrong side in the Napoleonic wars, Norway was taken from her. But it didn’t become independent. It became part of Sweden instead from 1814 to 1905. Only as late as that did Norway become independent again, after over 500 years.

Oslo was founded by the Vikings in 1048 and became the capital, but struggled. Bergen being the Hanseatic center that it was, was the economic center and controlled the Baltic trade. Then the plague killed half of Oslo’s population in 1348. When Norway became part of Denmark, Copenhagen became the capital of Norway. The year after a fire in Oslo in 1624, King Christian IV rebuilt it and renamed it after himself as Christiania. It kept that name even after independence in 1905. It wasn’t until 1925 that it went back to its original name, which is ironic, since it was exactly on the 300th anniversary of it becoming Christiania that it became Oslo again.

I had booked a hotel right across from the station. Even with the effects of jet lag, I had planned to see central Oslo that same afternoon, since I was leaving for Bergen the next day. We had seen the sights on the outskirts of Oslo by car in 1973, such as the Viking ship Museum, the Kon-Tiki museum, and the Munch Museum. All I wanted to do this time was to take a stroll around the center, which turned out to be a great experience.

The weather was perfect. Someone said Oslo has such pleasant weather only about 20 days a year, with sun and fresh breezes. Although lilacs had been in season in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden in April, here, much farther north, although it was early June, lilacs were everywhere, blue, purple, and white.

The main street in Oslo is Karl-Johans (YOO-) Gate (GAH-teh). Karl Johan was the joint king of Sweden and Norway during that period. The street is about ten blocks long and leads from Sentralstasjonen past Stortinget to Det Kongelige Slott. The first blocks, up to Stortinget, are a pedestrian zone (sone) and pass the cathedral. Then the street becomes wider and more upscale, with imposing buildings, many seemingly dating from the early 20th Century. Universitetet är på nörra sidan och Universitetsgården på södra sidan. (That’s Swedish, not Norwegian, but close; you just had to get a Scandinavian feeling here: The University is on the north side and the University Garden on the south side.) The gardens were full of people on this nice day. Flowers were everywhere and the fountains were flowing. It was good for just sitting, especially after the jet lag.

I’ve glossed over two items without explanation. Stortinget is the national parliament. To explain I want to reach into our experience in Iceland. Icelandic does have the TH sound like in English THink. The name of its parliament always brings a smile to English speakers. It’s called the Thing, a word based on ancient viking clan councils. Other Scandinavian languages don’t have the TH sound, so there you will find it as Ting instead, or, for “The Parliament” it’s Tinget. Stor (STOOR) means “large, grand, great” (remember Store Bælt?) so we get Storting. The Grand Parliament would then be Stortinget. You now should be able to identify what Storbritannien is, which also has a “Storting” of note.

As for Det Kongelige Slott: this is another instance where it is unclear to English speakers, but a German speaker could guess it on the spot. Let me briefly explain why, although the development of English needs more discussion later. English was heavily influenced by French after the Norman Invasion of 1066. Very simply put, that explains why English, a Germanic language, has lots of words similar to what Italic languages such as French have. We already mentioned that English is the only Germanic language that doesn’t call it the East Sea, but the Baltic, following the French lead.

This has advantages for the English speaker learning languages. There are lots of words in English that hook in directly to Germanic languages, but also lots that connect with Italic ones. But the down side is that, by splitting the difference, there are lots of words and expressions in Scandinavian, German and Dutch that the English speaker cannot recognize. Det Kongelige Slott is one of them. It’s the Royal Castle.

Castle is related to French Château. It is not connected to German Schloss or Scandinavian slott, but you can see the connection between the two latter words. English has Germanic “king”, also “kingly”, but usually avoids “kingly” to use French “royal”, based on French “roi”. Where English therefore has king/royal (a mixture of words) German has König/königlich and Scandinavian kong/kongelig. (This fact is curious: Schloss is related to schliess(en), to close. English does refer to a tower in the center of a castle as the castle Close, but beyond that the relation is tenuous.) The upshot is that the English speaker will have a bit of trouble in recognizing some Scandinavian words that the German speaker will not.

[Note: someone will have clearly wondered about the Scandinavian word “kong”, which also appears in Danish, a main square in Copenhagen being Kongens Nytorv, The King’s New Square. So how about King Kong? Were the filmmakers making a Scandinavian joke? I doubt it. My guess was that there was an attempt to give King Kong an exotic African feel, and the name was meant to evoke the Congo.]

It’s also time to talk just a bit about “the”, and also about language gender. There are two genders, but almost assuredly not what you think. You may be accustomed to masculine/feminine or maybe also masculine/feminine/neuter. It’s simpler here. There are two genders, but the pairing is common/neuter, common being a blending together of what had been masculine and feminine. Words of common gender say “the” by adding –en, as in kongen, neuter adds –et, as in slottet. If an adjective intervenes, then you usually attach these to d- up front instead (appearing as den or det): den norska kong, det kongliga slott. That’s Swedish, but the Norwegian seems to be den norske kong, det kongelige slott.

[Note: the genders of Dutch are also common/neuter: de straat, het nieuws. Note the resemblance between the English neuter pronoun “it” and the neuter forms for “the” in Scandinavian (–et) and in Dutch (het, pronounced and often written ’et).]

Anyway, it was a nice day to meet Kongen. On top of that, den norske kong had den spanske kong visiting him. At least it would have been a nice day to meet him, or them, with their queens. While sitting in the Universitetsgården, you could see soldiers and sailors lining up along both sides of Karl-Johans Gate. It turned out that the Spanish king was on a state visit to the Norwegian king, and they were to pass. When they did, after rows of marching soldiers and bands, a black limo zipped by with darkened windows. If there were kings and queens inside, they decided to snub me.

I knew I had time before the parade, so I went up Universitetsgata one block to Nasjonalgalariet (two syllables at the end: -RI-et), took a quick look around, but then went in to see their copy of Skrik. I couldn’t really let it evade me. It would have haunted me (??) Also note that Munch named that painting without putting any “the” on it. It means “Shriek”, or, if you will, “Scream”, without “The”, even though you usually see it (mis)translated that way.

If you retain any images of folksy quaintness about various countries, you should disabuse yourself of such. Everything is now very internasjonal. Before I left Oslo airport I counted three Seven Elevens. When I got into town, I saw three more, before I stopped counting. There were black soldiers in the Norwegian military marching in the parade (also women, whose outfits were just like the men’s, so you had to look close). The woman working at the first subway change booth I came to was wearing a muslim head scarf. I saw African woman in the streets in native costume. Remember, the first people to protest the Danish muslim cartoons were local Danish muslims, before it spread. It’s a very internasjonal world.

It would be handy if you learned two words. Building on German Bahn, which you recall refers to railroads, the Swedish word is bana, and in Norwegian it seems to be bane. These refer to railroads as well. Although the Danes are calling the subway they’re building the Metro, the other two have what I think is the most clever word for subway. Stockholm has its Tunnelbana, and Oslo its Tunnelbane. They are refered to as the T-Bana and T-Bane, with entrances marked with a big T.

The Swedish word for street is gata (GAH-ta). It is directly related to German Gasse, which in Germany refers to a small lane only, but in Austria does mean street. Many streets in Vienna end in –gasse. The Norwegian version seems to be gate, as in Karl-Johans Gate, but I’ve been asking people why I saw streets in Oslo called gata, as Universitetsgata. The best answer I got is that those street names are a remnant of the dual Swedish-Norwegian period, or are a result of the two varieties of Norwegian.

I finished seeing what I wanted to do in plenty of time to get myself a day pass for subway and streetcars and do some riding around. Both were fine, but the name Tunnel-Bane is rather non-descriptive in the Oslo situation, since only about half a dozen stations are underground, where the lines do go under the center city. All of them are otherwise surface lines going out in all directions from downtown.

Many people know I am unhappy with tours. Not only in my experience do the participants not know exactly what’s going on or just where they’re going (at least they seem to enjoy themselves), tour groups book up hotels and then there’s no room in the dining room, which happened that night in Oslo. I was told I could be served in the bar, where I grumblingly went. It turned out fine. Not only was the meal exceptional, but I got talking (in English) with a gentleman at the bar about Norway, languages, this website, why Norway isn’t in the European Union (he thinks it will join within five years), and we had a pleasant evening. As to the similarity of the Scandinavian languages, he pointed out that some Norwegian children prefer the Swedish version of Sesame Street, and so watch that on Swedish television instead, with little in the way of comprehension problems. In the end he was kind enough to buy me a glass of aquavit, whence cometh another story.

I’ve never been overly fond of akvavit, or as I now learn it’s said in Norwegian akevit. It usually has a caraway flavor, but the problem was it always tasted harsh. But what we said skål with this time was very good, and very smooth. He explained it was linie akevit, specifically Løiten Linie Akvavit and here’s the story that goes with it. At one time a shipment of akevit/akvavit was sent by the Løiten distiller in Norway on a long ocean voyage to Australia. On arrival, for some reason the shipment was refused, so it came all the way back.. On arrival, it was found that a wonderful flavor and taste had developed, most likely not only from the additional aging, but also the motion of the seas, and most probably the temperature changes of having crossed the equator twice, coming and going. It was so good that it sold readily, and was called linie [LIN.yeh] akvavit, since it had traveled on shipping lines. But what was Løiten to do about making more? I am told that today, akvavit that it to become linie akvavit is purposely put on ships on a round-trip voyage to Australia. And that was the linie akvavit I was offered, which I’ve ordered since.

The next morning I was leaving for Bergen, but I had the first of several breakfasts in Norway. The most enjoyable hotel-type breakfasts you get in Europe today in my opinion are German ones, which include everything your heart desires, including glasses of sparkling wine. But the second best ones have to be the Scandinavian. All sorts of eggs, all sorts of cold cuts, lox, and just about everything else. None of the three hotels I stayed at failed to have the requisite three kinds of herring tidbits on the breakfast buffet, one in wine sauce, one in tomato sauce, one in mustard sauce. Another Scandinavian wonder on every breakfast buffet is known in Swedish as gjetost. Ost (OOST) means cheese, and gjetost (YET.oost, [E as in cafE]) literally means goat cheese, but the literal name doesn’t tell the half of it. The Norwegian name seems to be brunost, and calling it brown cheese starts to make it clearer. It is a very, very rich, golden brown goat cheese, which has a sweet-ish taste, almost like eating candy. It is so rich that it isn’t sliced, but is always served in a block with a cheese shaver on top. A thin shaving or two is usually enough to satisfy, usually just by itself. Once you’ve had gjetost/brunost you won’t quickly forget it.

Bergensbana   Look at a map of Norway. Considering its shape, its long-distance rail lines within the country are few. Aside from a couple of lines coming in from Sweden, there are only three: straight north up the spine of the country, southwest around the coast to Stavanger, and northwest to Bergen. That’s the one to take. The Bergensbana was built in 1909 across the mountains. It is the highest mainline railroad route connecting two cities in Europe, and yes, that includes Switzerland with its Alps. The train going was sleek and new, with a needlenose front and back, and all the comforts. (Returning it was almost as nice.) I was able to plug in the laptop, also read, in addition to enjoying the scenery. Along the highest area you were riding along snowfields, and at one station, a glacier was announced, at which point all the photographers, including many Japanese, ran out onto the station to take pictures. On certain stretches there were snowsheds, wooden structures covering the tracks against snow buildups and avalanches. Entering them had the feel of driving a car into a carwash, a very long one. The highest station was announced at the hamlet of Finse, just serving a cluster of houses, at 1222 meters, just 4000 feet.

Bergen   Norway’s second city is a charmer. It’s compact, in the west of Norway, protected by coastal islands from (the) Norske Havet. The newer part of town has its own docks south of the center, but the center of town groups itself around the Vågen, a rectangular harbor pointing northwest. Bryggen and the medieval center runs along the longer north side, Torget with its fish market is along the inner short side, and on the longer south side was both (the) Terminalen from where my boat would be leaving two days after my arrival at an early 8 AM, but also my hotel, which was not by accident (they assured me online that they were only 100 meters from Terminalen, for a quick getaway). It was a cozy midrange hotel, and I had asked early on online for a room with a good view. Although the room was compact, I looked out on Bryggen across Vågen as well as Torget. I could have done an in-one-evening/out-the-next-morning thing, especially since I’d be stopping here again the following week on the ship, but I allowed a full day in between, which was a very wise and enjoyable move in general, and especially since I’d be stuck with a guided tour when I came later.

That first evening I took the funicular (fjellbana, or mountain railroad), built in 1918, that leads almost from the edge of Vågen up to Fløyen, the mountain ridge above town for a spectacular late afternoon view of Bergen from 320 meters (1048 feet). [If you’re not sure what a funicular is, it’s a pair of angled cars going up a VERY steep hill on tracks, each car at the end of a cable that runs up along the tracks to go around a wheel. The cars act as counterweights to each other.] While I was up top, I heard an Australian girl commenting on the colors of the beautiful bright, new cars on the funicular, one car a bright red, the other a bright blue. Only later did I see the names on the cars, so I couldn’t tell her. The red car was named Rødhette and the blue was Blåmannen. I was only guessing, but I think I figured out what two iconic (but not Scandinavian) images were being used. Any ideas?

This is typical of how much more you get out of a trip when you can at least make a wild guess at signs in a language you don’t fully know. My guess is that Rødhette looks like “Red Hat” and would therefore be Little Red Riding Hood. Now do you want to give Blåmannen another try?

Blåmannen is “The Blue Man”. That’s GOT to be Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.

Both that evening and the following day I went through Bryggen, which of course needs explanation. Bergen was founded in 1070. It quickly became a major center of the Hanseatic League, which centered in Northern Germany, but had offices everywhere from London throughout Scandinavia to Novgorod in Russia. (Bergen remained a financial center until 1700, well beyond Hanseatic times.) In Bergen there was built a large cluster of wooden buildings right on the north side of Vågen (Bryggen means The Wharf), which served as warehouses, offices (counting houses) and living quarters for the workers, many of which were young apprentices who came up from Germany. Because of the danger of fire, the buildings were unheated, even in the Norwegian winter. On the back street there were communal houses with dining halls and places to go for a drink and warm up. In spite of these precautions, Bryggen burned totally to the ground many times, and was last fully rebuilt to genuine medieval specifications, in 1702. Still, what is left today is only about one quarter of the original size, the last fire being in 1955, that took out several buildings. Bryggen has been declared a Unesco World Heritage Site. There is a foundation working to preserve it, and you can see the work area in the back where they cut beams with medieval broad axes, so any repairs that are needed have a quality of genuineness. Most of the buildings today are, not surprisingly, shops and restaurants. The front view of the buildings has become an icon of Bergen. The houses appear as a row of peaked roofs, giving a sawtooth affect. They are all painted earth colors, brown, ochre, gold, deep maroon. To walk in the tiny lanes between them is to go back to medieval times, since the lanes are not only narrow, but also have the typical overhangs, where a room one flight up might have been built out over the “street”. Bryggen alone is worth visiting Bergen for, just to experience how this business and living center worked, far more centuries ago than many other places can illustrate.

Beverly and I have often visited marketplaces. The last time I mentioned doing so was in Budapest, when I went to see all sorts of paprika being sold in their market. But I’ve rarely enjoyed a market more then the market right in front of my hotel at Torget. Actually, it was a fish market and an adjoinging fruit market. All stalls (maybe 8-10) were set up in the morning and gone by evening. Both days I kept on walking through both. It was the heady scent of the fish market that sticks in the mind most. The canopy above one fish stand said “Det beste fra havet”. You can figure that out, but don’t get too carried away with images of a bunch of old Norwegian fishermen. Most of the employees in the market were quite international, Italian, Spanish, maybe Turkish, so adjust that mental image to the modern world. They were preparing takeaway shrimp sandwiches. A Japanese couple bought a single king crab leg to nibble on. It was a lot of fun to watch. Of course, I took language notes (thank goodness for signs!). Another sign over a fish stand said: Allt i havets delikatesser, which would mean “Everything in (the way of) the sea’s delicacies”. Now change that Norwegian R plural to a German N plural and you have Delikatessen. Then respell it with an English C and the next time you go to a deli, you’ll know what Delicatessen literally means.

If I tell you that a “rek” (E as in cafE) is a shrimp, figure this out: Ekstra store reker, and don’t be thrown on that ending on stor. Another sign said: Nye, fine havreker.

Nearby restaurant menus had these items that you should be able to figure out (hint: the first word in each pair comes apart into three sections):

In the fruit market they were selling nektariner, plommer, pærer and epler (just pronounce them and you’ll get it). They had only a few bananer, but alas, there was no sign saying so. It would have been full circle from that day in Copenhagen in 1961. But are those R plurals growing on you, too?

Most berries grow on bushes, but strawberries grow virtually on the ground, which gives them their name. English is unique in referring to the straw that’s put around the growing berries to protect them. Most other languages just call them earth berries, such as German Erdbeeren and, as I learned at the market, Norwegian jordbær. Figure out the rest of this sign set behind the strawberries: Belgiske søte, gode jordbær. Again, don’t let those –e endings bother you. What does søt sound like talking about strawberries? Also, pronounce the O in god correctly, and you’ll figure out the meanings.

The last sign I copied down requires an explanation involving exotic produce introduced to Europe. Think back a few centuries. Aside from berries, what would the most likely domestic fruit have been? It has to have been apples, and that’s the word used to describe the exotic produce most frequently.

The tomato was introduced to Europe from South America. Most languages did come up with something like “tomato”, but Italian used an apple reference. To this day the Italian word for tomato is pomidoro, based on pomo d’oro, the “golden apple”.

The potato was introduced from South America. Some languages described potatoes as “earth apples”, such as French pommes de terre. It’s ironic that that expression is shortened in “pommes frites” (fried potatoes = French fries), since the shortening results in one’s saying literally not fried potatoes but fried apples. Rembrandt’s famous painting of the “Potato Eaters” is in Dutch “Aardappeleter”. Look at that carefully and you’ll see “earth apple eaters”. (By the way, an aardvark is literally an “earth wolf”.)

But to the matter at hand: oranges were introduced, some languages using that or a similar word, but German can use Apfelsine, and as I learn, Norwegian appelsin. The apple reference is clear, but what about the rest? It’s not easily guessed. Think of prefixes for national references, such as Anglo- or Italo- or Russo-, and most specifically, think of the Sino-Japanese war. Sino-, oddly, does refer to China, and calling an orange an Apfelsine or appelsin is literally calling it a “Chinese apple”. In any case, here’s the last sign I have from the fruit market. Any ideas?

In the broom tonguetwister, we saw that fri was free. These Spanish oranges are stone-free, which is—seedless.

My last adventure in Bergen involved a sweater. I said we were never usually travel-shoppers at the time going around South America that we bought that globe. But I bought a blue-and-white Norwegian sweater for several reasons. Years ago, Beverly had bought herself a blue-and-white one, but I hadn’t wanted one. The weather continued to be gorgeous in Bergen, although it’s still jacket-and-long-sleeve weather in early June, but would that be enough for Spitsbergen? I found a simple design I liked, a two-tone navy blue pattern with a bit of white trim at the shoulders, and learned several things. First, tourists are advised to get the steep value-added tax returned when leaving the country, and I was shown I can do so on the ferry out of Oslo. Second, we come back to the modern world and the global economy. How much “Norwegian” is there in a Norwegian wool sweater? It turns out, the design, and the design alone (although that is quite significant). Don’t picture some Norwegian grandmother in the mountains spinning and hand-knitting the wool grandpa brings in from the farm. That might still be obtainable, but for a king’s ransom. The very helpful gentleman explained that the sweater I liked was top-quality merino wool, which comes from Australia and New Zealand. He had sweaters made with wool from Norwegian sheep, but they were of lesser quality. Secondly, my “Norwegian” sweater could be described, shall we say diplomatically, as Sino-Norwegian. He said there are two ways it’s done now in Norway. A Norwegian factory can machine-knit bolts of knitted material, and then send it to China to have the bolts cut up (cut up?) and sewn into sweaters. In this situation, they have the right to label it “Made in Norway” (??). On the other hand, other manufacturers have both the machine-knitting and final fabrication done in China in the first place, which is the situation with the sweater I have. The saving grace in my mind is that this man’s brother, who owns the company, does have all the designing done in Norway, but also actually does have his own factory in China. So, one travels and learns ever more about the global economy. And buys a Sino-Norwegian sweater. By the way, I think that globe two years ago was made in China, too.

Sognefjord-Flåm-Flåmsbana   These three items actually roll into one, and are the reason for putting this entire Southern Norwegian add-on at the beginning of the trip. When we were here in 1973 we drove, over mountains, on ferries across fjords, everywhere, before taking the coastal steamer, the Hurtigruten, up the coast to Northern Norway. We had heard again and again how nice the train ride was on the Flåmsbana, and how you could connect that with a ferry trip on a fjord, but we weren’t able to do it then. So, carpe diem!, now was the time.

In 1909, the building of the Bergensbana opened up a previously non-existant land connection, not only between Oslo and Bergen, but also between Oslo and the west coast in general. North of Bergen, the Sognefjord cuts halfway across Norway, and it had been considered from the beginning that there should be a spur directly connecting the inland end of it with the Bergansbana as well, since, with ferries, the whole Sognefjord would now have an Oslo connection as well. Flåm, at the end of the Auerlandfjord off the Sognefjord, was the logical connection point, but it involved building a spur rail line from close to the highest point on the Bergensbana down to sea level, a drop of 900 meters, or over 2900 feet, all in the short distance of 20 kilometers/12 miles. Work was started on the Flåmsbana in 1920 and slowly progressed until 1940, just into the war years. 20 tunnels were needed, 18 of them excavated by hand. Although cog-wheel technology was considered, considering the steep grades, regular traction was successfully used instead.

After the war, the connection was successful for many years, but as more roads were built (you can drive Bergen-Oslo today over the mountains), ridership on the Flåmsbana declined, to the point that the Norwegian State Railroads were ready to at best, cut back service, and at worst, were even considering closure of the branch line.

The construction side of the Flåmsbana shows Norwegian engineering, but what happened in 1998 shows Norwegian marketing abilities. A private company, Flåm Utvikling (Flåm Development) bought the branch line (the railroad still runs the trains, though), upgraded and refurbished it, and decided to cleverly “recycle” it. If local traffic was in decline, then they decided to sell the spectacular trip as a tourist excursion, coupled with a ferry ride, and marketed it under the registered trademark “Norway in a Nutshell” (Norge i et Nøtteskal [I love that word]). It’s advertised everywhere, explaining that you take the expressboat out of Bergen at 8 AM (!!) up the coast, then down the Sognefjord to Flåm, walk over a few steps to the Flåmsbana to ride up the mountain for the connection at Myrdal for the Bergensbana back to Bergen. All the timetables mesh perfectly. It can also be done in reverse. It’s meant for individual travelers, but of course far too many travelers (I’d better call them tourists in this context), probably the majority, “want their hand held”, so tour operators also do the day trip in groups out of Bergen. In any case, success is shown thusly: the original 1915 forecast for the Flåmsbana was to have 22,000 passengers ride it per year. Now, 2003 set the record, when 417,540 passengers rode it. How’s that for recycling, and marketing knowhow.

But still, I wasn’t satisfied doing Norge i et Nøtteskal just the way they prescribed it. I didn’t want to rush it into one day; two is better, with an overnight in Flåm. I also wanted to see the Nærøyfjord, which required a midtfjords change, (which I had seen done earlier and had wanted to do myself anyway), and I didn’t want to go back to Bergen, but instead wanted to complete my circle back to Oslo. So I cobbled everything together to my liking, which is one of the many pleasures of independent travel, and arranged my very own personalized Norge i et Nøtteskal.

Fjords are simply wide estuaries of rivers, that is to say, a river getting very wide near its mouth. It needn’t be particularly spectacular. However, Norway has the highest concentration of fjords in the world (which is why we use the Norwegian word to name them), and many of them are indeed spectacular. They often run long distances inland, and have high mountains along their sides, often snow-covered, with glaciers and waterfalls.

An example of a spectacular fjord not in Norway is Tracy Arm in Alaska, where I sailed late last summer north from Juneau to Skagway, and later on south from Skagway to Sitka. It had all the prerequiste spectacular elements mentioned above. An example of a very large fjord in Norway that isn’t particularly special is the Oslo fjord. Its hugely widening shape defines the whole south coast of Norway on the map, and it’s perfectly pleasant, but it has nothing more then low-level wooded areas alongside it. Let’s put it this way: you would not visit Norway just to see the Oslo fjord.

But you would visit Norway just to see the Sognefjord, and many others on the west coast. The Deutschland was going to visit several very special fjords, but not the Sognefjord, which was an additional reason to do the Flåm trip.

But you can’t visit a famous place and not be able to say its name, or at least I can’t. The Sognefjord seems to be named after the town of Sogn, which lies along it. I had a feeling it wasn’t pronounced as it looks. I checked twice with locals, I now know its peculiar pronunciation, and I want to describe it in the following manner.

All Germanic languages have the sound –ng, usually spelled just that way. However, it is NEVER spelled that way in any language in front of a K, where –ng is always spelled just N, as in “bank”, which is pronounced BANGK. As I now learn, Norwegian can also have -ng in front of another N, in which case it’s not spelled NG, nor is it spelled N, either. It’s spelled G! So the town of Sogn is pronounced SONG.n, like when doing a “song ‘n‘ dance”, and this is the SONG.neh.fyord.

The Sognefjord is the longest fjord in the world. It cuts from west to east across a good part of Norway toward the Swedish border. It is 205 kilometers long, or 120 miles. It is also the deepest in the world, its greatest depth being 1308 meters or 4300 feet, occurring about half way up it. It of course has right along it all the prerequisite high mountains, glaciers, waterfalls, and snow cover (even remaining in early June), and it was commented on on the ferry, regarding the depth of the fjord, that the mountains go just as far, if not further, below the surface of the water as above.

To picture the two side fjords leaving the Sognefjord south about ¾ of the distance inland, you have to picture a large map of Norway, with your left arm reaching out across it. If you then point two fingers downward like an upside-down V, or like two “legs” walking, you can then imagine the two side fjords. The right-hand finger represents the Auerlandfjord, going down past Auerland to Flåm at its end. To say Flåm is at its end is not exactly accurate. As is so often the case, the town is at the end of the water, but the valley continues some distance behind the town, finally rising to the top of the mountains. There will usually be a river coming down from the mountains, through the valley and past the town, flowing into the fjord. It then becomes clear that the fjord is the flooded remainder of these rivers, and these side fjord-rivers used to be tributaries to the main one.

The left-hand finger represents the Nærøyfjord, which leads down to the town of Gudvangen. As to pronunciation: Nær- is like the first syllable in English nærrow; for the combination –øy (which is –öü) pronounce E + I (as in cafE and skI), and kiss someone.

The Nærøyfjord is one of two of Norway’s fjords that are special enough to have been placed onto Unesco’s World Heritage List. The other is the Geirangerfjord, which the Deutschland will visit later on this month. (To pronounce –ei-, just do the E + I above, but DO NOT kiss anyone. It comes out like GAY.rang.er.)

The Nærøyfjord is one of the most spectacular fjords, because of its narrowness. It’s the narrowest in the world, going down to a width of only 250 meters, or 818 feet, between mountains of 1800 meters, or 5900 feet. It is worth taking a little extra trouble to visit.

So the express boat left Bergen at 8 AM (!!) headed for Flåm. Even with a number of stops on the way, it moved quickly, considering the distance it was covering. You could see two strong jets of water shooting out behind the stern of the boat. The route goes up the coast, then turns into Sognefjorden. At a town at this point we had to make a special transfer to another express boat to actually go down the fjord, which I’ll explain later. On this second boat, I was writing on the laptop in a sitting area with an outlet to plug into when a group from the Netherlands took the other seats. We ended up having a nice chat (in English), about fjords, travel, and language, which ended in my showing them a number of tonguetwisters, including one I haven’t yet put on the website. This one was in Dutch, and I actually summoned up the courage to read something in Dutch to a group of Netherlanders. Actually, it went well, and I’ll publish it soon.

The width of the fjord was still quite substantial at the beginning, but after a couple of hours, the shores got closer together. In any case, the express boat was due to go on down the Auerlandsfjord to Flåm, but I wanted to do the midtfjords transfer to a smaller ferry coming from somewhere but going down the Nærøyfjord to Gudvangen. The smaller ferry had reached the mid-fjord meeting place first, the express boat pulled up right next to it, and leaning into it, they extended a gangvei between the two, and those of us transferring took our luggage and crossed. Clever, these Norwegians. (Pronounce –ei- in gangvei like in Geiranger and you’ll see it’s the Norwegian spelling of the English word gangway.)

At this point the Germanic SK/SH situation could be mentioned, and it could be pointed out that the person in charge of a Scandinavian “skip” is a “skipper”, with SK being pronounced SH in both cases, which should by now be no surprise. One could then ponder that in English, a “ship”, could be said to be commanded by a “skipper”, but pronounced SK, which makes for a curious mixture of words. There is also a kind of boat called a skipjack, which, it now becomes obvious, has nothing to do with skipping down the street. Finally, we talk today about “shipping” goods by any means, not only in the original meaning of by ship. Nevertheless, a person who ships merchandise is a shipper of merchandise. It is therefore possible for a shipper to give instructions to a skipper. The wonder of language never ends.

The smaller ferry went down the Nærøyfjord on a beautiful, sunny day to Gudvangen. I then had a 90-minute layover where I sat on a terrace, read my book, and looked up the fjord. Finally, my last ferry connection of the day went back up the Nærøyfjord, turned, and went down the Auerlandsfjord to Flåm, “up one finger and down the other” to use my earlier allusion. Earlier, in the Sognefjord, I had looked into the water and saw what I had thought was a large fish, but in the Nærøyfjord, the skipper purposely pulled the boat over to the side of the fjord (making us late, but it was worth it) to look at three seals sunning themselves on the rocks, so that was what I had seen previously. They say there are also whales visible in the fjords, but not that day.

I was happily surprised to see the emergence of another “tourist” language on this trip. Everywhere on the ferries were signs in Norwegian of course, English, German, often French, and guide books in the same plus Italian and Spanish. But this time, not only were there signs and guidebooks in Russian, but on the express boat, announcements were made in Norwegian, English, German, French—and Russian, too. When I arrived in Flåm early that evening, I picked up the Flåmsbana brochure with explanations in the usual languages, but apparently also of interest to Russian speakers were Флом/Flom and the Фломская железная дорога/Flomskaya zhelyeznaya doroga (Flom iron road = Flåmsbana). It’s a new world.

It was again a beautiful, sunny day for the Flåmsbana trip the next morning. Announcements on the train pointed out the sights, and explained that all these Norwegian valleys have been inhabited for a very long time, and have long pre-Christian traditions, such as that of Huldra the Wood Nymph. It only takes an hour for the 20 kilometers/12 miles, even with the occasional stop for the expected scenic views, including several high waterfalls. It is a single-track route, with one double-tracked passing point. Again, you have to picture the remaining Flåm valley beyond the fjord as rising slightly, and then ending at a “back wall”, with the river pouring down from the top of this wall down to the valley. The engineering feat was to build the route rising higher and higher along the sides of the valley, including through numerous tunnels, and, so that, when reaching the “back wall”, a good deal of altitude had already been gained. Nevertheless, the route then zigzags back and forth at that wall, including a hairpin tunnel with a 180° turn, before emerging to join the Bergensbana up at Myrdal station, having risen from sea level at the fjord 900 meters or 2900 feet. Timing is such that there’s only a scheduled 5-6 minute wait between connecting trains.

Of all the sights seen from the train, there is no doubt that Kjosfossen waterfall is the most spectacular (that’s the way it’s billed; actually, foss means waterfall, so the name is Kjos+waterfall+the). Kjos is pronounced something like SHOOSS. It’s spectacular for a number of reasons. The train route passes just a few hundred feet from the top of it, so you’re close, and slightly below it, as it’s just going over the cliff. It seems to be the main river on its way down to the valley. There’s a special train platform built there, and everyone gets out of the train to see the spectacle of this water shooting over the top and toward you, and then falling under the platform and trestle. It happened to be about noon, so the bright sun played with the spray and the white foam. Actually, there was enough spray—this being glacial melt season—that you wanted to step a bit to the side to avoid it.

Then eerie, but pleasant music started playing over a loudspeaker. I thought that was a nice touch, evoking ancient days in the valley. It was nice, and I thought that that was it. Then, you couldn’t help but look twice. With no announcement, on the right, halfway back to the huge, blustery falls, was the ruin of an old stone building, which turned out to be an abandoned power station. Standing just to the left of the building was a figure in a long gown with long droopy sleeves. She leaned with one hand on the stone building and slowly raised and lowered her other hand, with its long, long sleeve hanging below. She then disappeared, and reappeared again above the ruin, slowly waving again, then was again back on the side. The position of the very bright sun was such that the figure appeared, very effectively, mostly in silhouette in front of the bright, foamy water.

We of course had witnessed an appearance of Huldra the Wood Nymph.

A little theatrical? Of course. A bit over the top? Maybe. But Shakespeare said all the world’s a stage, and this bit of well-executed theater in front of that powerful waterfall, this high above the ground below, did just have a tendency to carry you back a thousand years in the Flåm Valley. Talk of time travel.

Royal Pursuit   Usually when you hear of royal pursuit, it involves private individuals chasing after royalty. I have the opposite problem. I think they’ve been chasing me.

The way I see it, when the King (Kongen) and Queen (Dronningen) of Norway [Swedish drottning, I see Norwegian says dronning] and the King and Queen of Spain missed spotting me that first day from their car on Karl-Johans Gate, they set up after me in hot pursuit. In Bergen I did hear outdoor music playing both days, and only after I left did people tell me that Kongen and Dronningen and their guests had been in town. When I took the express boat, it was announced that, quite exceptionally, we would need to transfer to another express boat at the head of the Sognefjord. Apparently I was the only one to ask why, and I was told that the express boat we were on originally was being chartered the next day by Kongen and Dronningen for official use, and had to be repositioned. I suppose if I hadn’t asked, it would have remained a state secret.

As we were going down the Sognefjord, the kongelige yacht was pointed out, ready for the next day. Apparently, by now I had successfully eluded den spanske Kong og den spanska Dronning.

Arriving in Gudvangen off the first smaller ferry, I was told that things were going to be busier in Gudvangen the next day, because Kongen and Dronningen would be there. It seems that, although Nærøyfjorden had been indeed declared a Unesco World Heritage Site last year, Kongen and Dronningen were going to officially dedicate it as such the following day. I was glad to have seen it in all its peace and quiet.

When I got to Flåm and went to dinner in my hotel, I was told that Dronningen would be coming to dinner right there that same next day after the dedication in Gudvangen. She would have missed me once again, although I seem to have totally eluded Kongen, who apparently had given up in frustration of ever catching up to me and wouldn’t even be coming over to Flåm the next day.

I didn’t hear any more about either of them following me after that as I left the next day on the Flåmsbana and Bergensbana back to Oslo, but—isn’t Oslo where they live? Would they be inviting me to dinner in Det Kongelige Slott that last night of mine in Oslo? Only when I was safely in Kiel would I know they had given up their pursuit and I will have completely eluded them.