And less tourist activities. Another boat ride, this time to the island of Lyngør, which one a prize for being the best-preserved town in Europe. It’s easy to see why. Everything is spanking fresh and lovely, somehow avoiding that Disney-ish sheen. We stopped for a walk and then lunch at Fred Hansen, who has a summer house there; it’s been in his family for generations and looks it. They’ve preserved much of the interior design from the turn of the century: old wall hangings and art, plus the furniture. Fred lived in Singapore and Hong Kong for years and had the insight to guess that I was Chinese — he seemed quite tickled by this ability.

But of course all play and no work… I visited two libraries yesterday in Risør: the public library and the local high school library.

Eva, the head of the public library gave me a tour of her domain — very Scandinavian in interior design, but very similar to HPL in many respects. She and Mai-Inger, a library assistant, put me to work at the front desk, titillating some of the non-English-speaking patrons. They also issued me a local library card and let me charge out on it. There are also nationwide cards that plug patrons into the national system, but one needs a state id for one.

Then Eva took me to the local high school library, which has recently been renovated. It’s the jewel of the high school, which local officials are struggling to keep. There’s periodic talk of closing it down and having students commute to Arendal (the nearest large town). But so far, they’ve managed to justify their own. I can’t imagine students getting to school miles away in 5ft of snow, but I suppose they would approach it philosophically as they do the weather — nothing to be done about it.

Stopped in the local bakery for a pastry and a cup of coffee — 35NOK, or about USD6.50 (no dollar signs on this keyboard). Last night we went to the local pub, and my soda water cost 29NOK (USD5+). I get the feeling that Reece and I will be eating a lot of bread, cheese, and water when he arrives.

It’s another charming seaside village, population 7000 in the winter, 20,000 in summer. The houses are a uniform white wood, like in Flekkefjord.

After a rainy drive from Flekkefjord, we arrived in Risør and headed straight for the Mayor’s office. He was looking rather harried, being in the middle of labor negotiations with one of Norway’s strongest unions, the teachers. Still, he greeted us graciously and fed us a nice lunch.

My host, Solveig Aanansen, is head nurse at the local clinic. She is also trained as a midwife but no longer practices actively. She lives by herself in a lovely flat facing the Risør harbor, so we enjoy cheerful views and are close to everything imaginable.

Yesterday we drove to Arendal, a neighboring city, to a boat exhibition. Lined up in the harbor were hosts of swanky boats, with people taking off their shoes to tour. There was also a handmade-chocolate stand, which got my attention more than the boats I couldn’t afford. I bought some lime (yes, lime) chocolate and a large bar of popped-rice milk chocolate for dessert with Solveig.

Today was a full day. We started at a fish hatchery, one of the most productive in Norway. The production manager showed us the halibut babies from fingernail-sized floating blobs to smallish, flat fingerlings with eyes on one side of their heads. They are incubated when hatched, fed algae fortified with Omega-3 fatty acids. When their eyes start to migrate, they’re placed in tanks to grow to selling size, about 4g. Finally, we saw the “spawners” — literal big mamas, 50kg leviathons swimming around dark tanks. As a woman, I sympathized with these poor creatures, periodically yanked out of their environment, then wrestled on lab tables till they give up their eggs. What a life.

Next stop: a blast from ship-building past, at Moen Shipbuilders. Risør was built on shipyards, with hundreds springing up over the past 250-300 years. Nowadys, Moen consists of two old buildings, looking so much like mammoth red barns. Inside sit wooden boats, awaiting minor repair or virtual rebuilding. The small team uses equipment from the past as well: ancient band saws, wooden peg makers, planing contraptions from the 1940s and before.

The day’s tour ended at Acanthus, a ceramic factory at the outskirts of town. We wandered through the showroom, evaluating the patterns of platters, mugs, lamps, etc. Then Ewa, our Polish guide, took us in back for a tour of the factory, showing everything from molds with clay in them to the glazing step. At the end of the tour, we were each given an unfinished fish platter to design. I figured the hardest part would be deciding on a pattern. I never got around to deciding, messing up the very first stroke and then trying to build a design from that. I ended up with what should have been a scarf-bundled child in a field of turquoise blue with clouds floating overhead. “Oh, South Park!” exclaimed Ewa, and she proceeded to crack us up with a choice line from the TV show. I had a greater appreciation of the deceptively simple designs in the showroom after that. To assuage everyone’s frustration, we also got to paint our own cups; I went for a more conservative look this time.

After dinner, Solveig and I headed to the other end of the harbor for a boat ride with Svein and his wife Bjerg, while the rest of the team went on Tonnes’ bigger speedboat. Passing a regatta of sailboats, we threaded our way through the small islands off the coast. Svein offered me the wheel. I asked if I should go any faster, and he promised I could get her up to speed on the way home. We all stopped for a decadent dessert buffet on one of the islands, then packed up when it started getting a bit chilly. Going further, we went through a narrow pass known as “Perleporten” or “The Pearly Gates.” With me at the bow, Svein followed Tonnes’ boat, a papparazzi clicking away at me. So I have proof that I’ve made it through the Pearly Gates.

On the way home, Svein made good on his promise and let me speed up a little. “Faster!” he urged, and I complied. “Turn! C’mon, harder!” So the boat careened at full throttle as best I could manage, with Svein egging me on and Solveig and Bjerg shrieking in the back.

Back in the harbor, Svein took Jim, Kevin and me for a play at the boat again. Kevin, then Jim took turns driving out toward a lighthouse in the North Sea and turning around a marker. I asked if I could try my hand at it, thinking I’d keep up with the guys. It’s one thing to zigzag at nearly open sea, quite another to pull a tight curve with a land mass dead ahead. At the last second, I chickened out and pulled back to nearly standstill, with Jim hooting at my nerves. A lesson in quitting when one is ahead.

It’s nine-thirty, with the sun still well above the horizon. As I type, I can watch a large wooden sailboat floating into the harbor and listen to a speedboat heading out to sea. Plenty of time for another ride before sunset.

Åse, my host, had everyone over for a shrimp dinner in a very traditional coastal way. She put out two vats of boiled shrimp, then passed around bread, butter and fresh mayonnaise. You start with one slice of bread and butter it. Then you grab a handful of shrimp and peel away. (There’s an art or at least a science to the peeling part — but it’s too hard to describe without visual aids.) When you’ve amassed a pile on your bread, you drizzle mayo all over and eat it with a knife and fork. I don’t know if the wine helps or hinders the peeling process. After everyone is “done,” and the conversation continues, you pull out one or two shrimp at a time and keep eating until everyone is over-done.

Then there was the warm-smoked salmon at Andreas’ house. Andreas, Jim’s host in Flekkefjord, has built a mausoleum-sized smokehouse in his back garden, where he smokes salmon, trout, anything he can fit inside. At dinner he pulled out platter after platter of the tenderest, most flavorful salmon I’ve had, all with a beautiful burnish on top. It was definitely worth a vacation from the vegetarian wagon.

Yesterday, we had traditional Norwegian fish soup in the “slow” town of Sokndal. “Slow” meaning the antithesis of McDonald’s. The Slow Food Movement is gaining momentum in Europe, where towns try to qualify for certification by eschewing large-scale franchises, and thoroughly embracing artisanal cottage industry. There are only two such cities in Norway, so it was very special to see the town. We had been walking around cold,windy, wet weather that morning, so it was especially comforting to settle into the little inn, eating freshly-baked homemade bread and large bowls of the creammmmmmmmmy concoction, digging for shrimp, salmon, and mussels.

Then in the evening, Åse made her traditional Christmas dinner, pinnehuøtt (spelling?). The word “pinne” comes from the Norwegian word for “birch,” because the cook traditionally makes a grid of birch twigs on the bottom of the Dutch oven to form a steamer (nowadays, Åse uses a metal rack.) Then one places smoked, salted and dried rack of lamb on top, and steams it for hours. The result is served with what they call sweet-root, which looks like a huge rutabaga, mashed. And of course: potatoes. We were told that it’s perfectly acceptable to gnaw on the bones, holding them with one’s fingers. I double-checked today, and apparently it’s true. For dessert, Åse made a sort of mousse with beaten egg white, sugar and preserves of the tyttebø (a sort of cranberry-ish fruit).

 Then there’s the leather tannery, which has existed in Flekkefjord since the 1800s.  I found the limits of my integrity there.  In the beginning of the tour, I vowed over the smelly, hairy hides that I’d be using fabric in the future; toward the end of the tour, I was grabbing the prettiest blue sample I could get my hands on.

But we’re enjoying the more touristy side of Flekkefjord, if one exists.  Harald, Steven’s host, took us out on the fjord in his 37′ boat.  Somehow I ended up designated driver, and I steered us past salmon farms, rocky cliffs, quaint summer houses, and even a pink castle.  The weather was perfect — sunny until a light sprinkle that generated a faint rainbow, almost too poetic to be real.

Yesterday we took a ferry to the island of Hidra, dotted with charming villages and one beautiful old church.  At any given fork in the road, Johann would say, “Steven, what does the map say?” which usually resulted in a lot of sputtering.  We took a tour of the church, then walked through the more picturesque villages before climbing to the top of the highest hill (”mountain” in American English), where an abandoned German fortress overlooked the North Sea.  Toha, one of our hosts, explained the size of the cannons and the use of various structures, and I hope I looked like I absorbed it as well as, say, Steven.  Of course, when he started to describe what our buffet lunch would offer, I perked right up.

We ate in a renovated ice house, where ice blocks would be harvested in winter and stored inside layers of sawdust.  Afterward, Anita (one of the Norwegian exchange team) took us back in her 19′ speedboat.  “I usually like to go like this,” she explained, bobbing her hand between her hip and shoulder, “but today I don’t want to.”  “Okay,” I said, accomodatingly.  Then she clipped on her keel switch and took the North Sea swells head on.  The North Sea is cold.

 I also have had a chance to meet a couple of librarians and visit two public libraries.  Anita arranged for me to meet her friend Elisabet, who is a librarian in the village of Fasund, about the same size as Flekkefjord.  They have many of the same youth titles in Norwegian as we do in English: Nancy Drew, Maurice Sendak books, Tolkien, and of course Harry Potter.  They don’t bother with Norwegian translations of English-language bestsellers, since the books are much cheaper in the original language.

Interestingly, public libraries are not allowed to use private funding.  They rely solely on state funding.  Not all librarians have any formal library science education.  They offer most of the services we do, including genealogical microfilm resources, although the Flekkefjord library has no storytime or adult programming, since it has only two librarians.  I get the feeling that libraries face pretty much the same problems across the Atlantic.

The owner took us on a tour of the ship they are finishing, the John Cook, a research vessel for the British Natural Environment Research Center. There were literally miles of cable (the G.E. Sars had about 180 km), hanging about freely since the boat’s not done yet. After going through the labyrinth of the interior, we went up to the bridge, which is ultimately controlled by a single joystick.

The scale of the project is staggering, but is even more impressive when one realizes that much of it is designed as it is built, by the seat of the engineers’ pants, so to speak.

After lunch, we took a guided tour of downtown Flekkefjord, led by the curator of the local museum, a young sailor-looking fellow. Flekkefjord is tiny, but has a rich architectural history. Everything is centered around a single church that was built in the 17th century, when Flekkefjord was a timber station.

Most of the buildings are white wooden structures, but the original colors were earth-tones. Only the facades of buildings were white, because it was such an expensive paint. Johann (the grandfatherly bus driver) owns a large building in town that he’s been restoring. Now it is a mustard-yellow with ochre trim.

After tour of the museum, we headed for the shop of the goldsmith who crafted our cheese slicers. He had an interesting studio, with both modern and old-looking items. I became even more appreciative of the talent and thoughtfulness that’s represented in my gift.

Flekkefjord is a tiny city (village), of about 9,000 residents.  Åsa’s house lies on the banks of a tiny lake on Flekkefjord’s outskirts, about a 10-minute walk from town.  For some reason (which I lost because I was still so groggy from the motion-sickness meds), it’s in a Swiss chalet style, as are several other buildings in town.  Inside, she has heated floors and a gallery-full of wonderful art.

We had a typical Norwegian lunch at her house: open-faced sandwiches with an array of condiments to choose from.  Then I crashed for a couple of hours before our next Rotary meeting.

The meeting itself consisted mostly of our presentations, plus a little ceremony honoring one of its members, Christian Anderson (no Hans).  Then a traditional but not typical meal of some pork-rind-y loin, potatoes, some sort of sweetish root-mash, and a fabulous bean soup/stew that there couldn’t be enough of.

At the end of the meal, they presented us with pewter-handled cheese slicers.  The spade-like cheese slicers that most of us are familiar with were invented in Norway.  These examples had handles that were stamped with relief from a pre-viking gold coin that was found in the area — very special gifts.

Lunch after the Rotary meeting was a lavish Norwegian cold buffet: salmon cured in brine with dill; “warm-smoked” salmon; the freshest shrimp I have ever had; fresh crabs; some sort of trout-ish fish (smoked); a riiiiiiiiiiiiiich seafood salad; and so forth.  I even tried and liked the pickled herring.  Back to the shrimp — I was told that the fishermen catch them and cook them right on the boat, then bring them in a few hours before they are eaten.  I can’t wait to eat them after the tour with Reece, when we don’t have to restrain ourselves.

Last night I watched Thorbyen make tonight’s dinner, rommegrøte — sour cream porridge.  He boiled a pint of sour cream for ten minutes, then added a pint of flour, which renders the butter (which he skims off — that’s the only time the word “skim” comes into play).  He stirred that until it looked like very creamy mashed potatoes.  Then he gradually added a liter of scalded milk, stirring  constantly, until it was all incorporated and velvety smooth.  When that came to a boil it was done.  He gave me a litte bowl to taste, which was like eating velvet heaven, and which probably had about 6,000 calories in it.  Especially since he topped it with sugar, cinnamon, and the rendered butter.  I’ll definitely make this at home, when Reece and I haven’t eaten for a couple of weeks.

Randi, Thorbyen, and Turenn (the elder daughter) all got on their bunads, their national costume. Theirs are called “Westland bunad” or “Hardanger bunad” being from the western region.  The women wear bright white cotton blouses trimmed with lace, a vest/skirt duo with a long black pleated skirt, a chest plate with embroidery and lovely beadwork, a white apron with more lace, an embroidered belt over that, tights, and black shoes with silver buckles.  Everything is held together with silver and gold jewelry, often with little parts that flutter when they walk.  Randi wears a gold “wife’s belt” instead of an embroidered one. 

The bunads are lovely and ubiquitous.  Everywhere we went today, people had on their bunads, saying “gratulerer med dagen” (congratulations with the day) to others.  We went downtown and watched the children’s parade — so cute with the little ones in their bunad outfits.  I did hear the national anthem, and also “Norway, red, white and blue” quite a bit.

After the parade, we went to watch Thorva’s band play at the senior home.  The band stood at attention in the courtyard, playing patriotic songs, while residents who couldn’t attend the parade came out in wheelchairs and walkers to watch from the balconies.  It was a sweet sight.  It made me think of people who have been so kind and generous to Dad over the past few years, and I felt very moved.

Later Randi and I went to the Rotary meeting, and I gave my first presentation.  People had given us 17 mai pins and streamers, plus we had our Rotary patches and pins — a lot of flair.  I spoke about Civil Rights in Alabama, which at least some people heard, because they came to me afterwards and mentioned how Norway is so interested in human rights.  A couple have been active in Amnesty International, which is always nice to hear.

I learned an interesting Norwegian word yesterday, janteloven.  “Jante” was a Danish author, and “loven” means “law.”  Combined, they represent the aspiration not to stand out too much, not to outstrip others.  A couple of Norwegians (or at least, one Norwegian and one American-Norwegian) have expressed dissatisfaction with this aspect of Norwegian culture, which keeps students from motivating themselves to excel.  I can see how a parent might prefer outstanding kids, but I also appreciate the security that I perceive in Norwegians, who know that they don’t have to be special to be appreciated.

Right now my thoughts are turning to coffee.  We still have fireworks to watch at 11:00 tonight.  It won’t be dark till then, I suppose.  With luck it won’t be wet.

Today, as yesterday, we had catered lunches at our meetings with the locals.  My favorite is the open-faced shrimp sandwich, which has an unabashed dollap of fresh mayo and a heap of teeny fresh shrimp.  I’ve been reading that the thing to do in Bergen is to get a batch of freshly-boiled shrimp and peel them and eat them, but frankly I don’t need to peel them myself.  I’m quite happy to have someone else do it, if they’re this small.  Instant gratification.

The only thing about the open-faces is that we’re eating them in front of community leaders, and it’s pretty challenging to look dignified with shrimp falling from your face when biting.  But at least the locals seem to have as much trouble.

 And now Randi and I made chocolate chip cookie dough, sort of.  We used baking powder instead of soda, and some rock-hard brown sugar crystals.  And there aren’t any English measuring cups, so I had to fake the amount of butter (quarter-kilo?) and flour and sugar.  Vanilla sugar instead extract.  We’ll have an interesting concoction, but it’ll have chocolate and butter and sugar — what could go wrong?

still can’t seem to upload photos.  I’ll work on it tomorrow.