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7/13

July 18th, 2007

The Brazilians come in around six and are comatose when I get up. My driver from the hostel comes at around eleven. He is a big rotund older fellow, balding with a moustache, and large eyes that never seem to quite focus on you. He is jovial, and seems keen to practice his English, which is pretty good but a bit halting. We jump in his little car and he goes tearing down the street, peeling around corners, barely missing passing car doors, pedestrians, trucks, land mines. There is almost no margin for error each time but he always squeezes through, it is like an obstacle course at the Grand Prix. The traffic is chaos, and no one seems to be paying much attention to lanes, the road or each other. And all the while, the driver manages to keep a running conversation going. I ask him about the beards, or lack of them. “This is the New Russia,” he replies. “Are most people happier now than before?” I ask him. He tells me that although now people can own cars and go out to eat in restaurants, there were certain benefits to the old system that are missed now, such as free education and medicine. He tells me that he was on the state rowing team when he was younger, but now without state sponsorship it doesn’t exist anymore. In a half hour we arrive at the airport. I hand him a fifty ruble note and he bursts out in a laugh and a big smile, shaking my hand vigorously. I enter the airport, go through a metal detector and see a small group gathered around the entrance to the gates. I walk up, there is a small, disinterested looking young girl draped over a chair, staring sourly at everyone. I walk up and begin to pass her. “Wait,” she says, holding her hand up. Apparently, passengers can only go in in waves at appointed times. I go up to the bar, have a beer and wait. About an hour later I go back down, and apart from waiting on a very long line, everything goes smoothly. In fact, they don’t ask me a single question along the way and seem to barely check the paperwork. The flight takes about two and a half hours and by mid-afternoon, I am in Frankfurt (once again), waiting for my transfer flight to DC and back to the States. This flight proceeds uneventfully for the most part as well, and by nightfall I am home. The trip is finally over. I have been feeling a profound sadness all day long, a sense that something monumental and wonderful has just happened in my life, and that it has now come to a close. It will take weeks, months to put it in perspective. I have seen so many new places, met so many new people, people I never knew existed. It has been life-affirming after all, unexpectedly and delightfully. I hope that my new friends, who I will never see again, do well, and I wish them the best of luck, I wish them health and success and happy lives. And I hope that the memories from this magical journey stay with me for a long, long time to come.

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7/12

July 18th, 2007

Sleep in again until almost noon. Am a bit hungover. Have my free bread downstairs. Head to the bank to change some money, they are all at lunch. Wait until they come back, then I am escorted to the window by a serious looking fellow who looks no more than twenty years old. At the counter, he asks where I am from in good English. I tell him the US. “You only pay bills once a year there, yes?” I tell him no, he is probably thinking of taxes. He tells me that the heat they have been having is very unusual, in fact it is the hottest it has been in ten years. I leave and head for the Hermitage. The Hermitage is absolutely gargantuan; they say that if you looked at every exhibit they have for thirty seconds each, it would take you about nine years. I walk and walk and walk, it is seemingly endless. Sculptures, statues, painting, furniture, jewelry, you name it they have it. I see Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, they are all there. In each room sits a little babushka, watching over things and sometimes nodding off. There are so many rooms and corridors and levels that you wind up spinning around, not sure of where to go next. Tour guides lead people around here and there, and there are large groups of Japanese moving in unison (as usual). I am generally not a museum or art person, but I am duly impressed – it would be hard not to be. Just the size of the building itself is impressive. When I have had my fill, I find the exit (no mean feat) and head out. Once more I’ve done quite a bit of walking and am tired, so I go back to the hostel and lay down for a while. In twenty-four hours I will be on a plane home, the trip is almost over. What I thought was poison ivy or warts appears to be accompanied by a rash, which is spreading. A bit worrisome, some vile thing I probably picked up in one of the seedier hostel showers or something. In a while I get up, walk down Nevskiy and eat a sandwich at Subway (again, not feeling energetic enough to brave local cuisine). After, I decide to take a walk down one of the main crosstown drags to the west side of town to see St. Nicholas cathedral. It turns out to be worth the hike, as the cathedral is very nice, light blue with white trim and big gold domes. It sits alongside one of the many canals in St. Petersburg – in fact, the canal layout reminds me of Amsterdam. St. Petersburg is really a beautiful city. After the cathedral, I grab a beer and drink it on the walk back. All the locals are doing it, so I guess it is all right here. Then back to the hostel to drink the last straggler and relax once again. I go to the bar next door, there are a bunch of Brazilians I had met earlier drinking there. Brazilians are among the friendliest and most light-hearted people I have ever met, it is ironic that such wonderful people can come from such a troubled place. They tell me they were stopped by the police that afternoon and had their paperwork checked, but nothing else came of it. One of the guys offers me his phone number and e-mail in case I should ever want to visit Brazil. A gang from the previous night shows up and we drink together, laughing and having a good time. Midnight comes around and the Brazilians want to go to a club, and foolishly I agree. I have almost no cash and have resolved to not be hungover for tomorrow’s trip. But there I am, getting in a cab and going across town to the Metro club, a flashy dance club full of glitz and pizzazz. Well, sure enough, it turns out to be a bad idea, as the cover alone at the place is more than enough to clean me out. I decide to cut my losses, duck out and head back on foot. I check my map, and I am miles away from the hostel, so I hail a cab (after a good half hour’s walk) and get back that way. Good and tired, I crash for the evening.

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7/11

July 18th, 2007

Sleep until almost eleven. Get up, go out to see the Hermitage, which is a giant stately building situated in an equally giant square, at the center of which is a towering obelisk crowned with a statue. I admit to being apprehensive, almost paranoid from all the stories about the cops here, they are all over the place and I feel like the KGB is going to hunt me down or something. Police, military, officials of all shapes and sizes with all different uniforms – it appears that Mother Russia is having a bit of trouble letting go of the Cold War. Next, I wander over to the adjacent park to see the statue of the Bronze Horseman. The military is everywhere, all over the park, and then it occurs to me that this is probably for the G8 summit that is going on right now in the city. Putin and Georgie and all the other big wigs are in town, and I’m sure that is causing the heightened security. I turn down a small side street and there is a small bear chained to the wall (seriously). He has a muzzle on and people are stopping to pet him. Parts of this trip have been surreal. I walk back to the hostel to get my free breakfast (bread), and chat briefly with a French girl from Seattle named Ann. Then go back out, first see St. Isaac’s cathedral, then walk down Nevskiy prospect again. The street is bustling with activity, this is certainly the center of town. I turn and walk north towards the river, past the Engineer’s castle and stopping to see the Church of the Spilled Blood. This is one of the most amazing churches I have ever seen, it has a multitude of Russian-style domes, and the colors are unbelievable, so vibrant, the building just jumps out at you. Some gold, some stripes, all different colors and intricate patterns. The people here are a bit dour in appearance and I wouldn’t call them overly friendly, but given their reputation for being stone-faced, I don’t think they’re all that bad. There does seem to be a certain dangerous undercurrent running through the culture though, hard to describe exactly, of desperation, almost violence. They have had a very rough history. Other observations: some of them drive like maniacs, and almost none of the men wear beards. I thought everyone in Russia had a beard. I walk across a bridge over the Neva river, take in the palaces and the Peter and Paul fortress. People are sunbathing and swimming in the river. I take a long walk around, past an old Soviet-era Navy battleship, and arrive at Finlandsky train station, where there is still a statue of Lenin standing in front (most of them have been ripped down). He stands there, pointing the way. Later I sit down to have a few beers and get out of the sun. After a lengthy rest, I get up and resume walking, discover I have to go to the bathroom, so I find a bar, use the toilet and have another beer (real clever strategy). I walk over to a nice park to the east, lots of trees and people lounging around and playing soccer. Then, to go back I had planned to use the metro, since there is a stop nearby on the map, but I am unable to locate it and wind up walking all the way back. This is undoubtedly the most walking I have done in one day on the trip – St. Petersburg is a big city. On the way I stop for dinner, I order ‘roast’ and I get a cup of soup. I follow it up with a Big Mac next door. When I get back, I find Ann the French girl sitting on the balcony in the hall smoking a cigarette, so I stop, take my beers out of my pockets (from the supermarket) and socialize a bit. A little crowd gathers around, an Australian, a few English, and we all decide to go next door to the bar. We drink beers and a bit of vodka and talk until past midnight, when it is still not dark. The Australian guy is trying to get to Moscow, but is having some trouble booking accommodations in advance. I head back to the hostel after a while and call it a night.

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7/10

July 18th, 2007

Get up at six am, shower and dress, pack up and head out for the train. It is early in the morning, I have my money belt around my waist, my pack on my back and this is the final journey, the train to St. Petersburg. I give myself odds of around 50 / 50 of being allowed to cross the border without a hassle or a bribe. It feels almost unreal that the trip is finally drawing to a close; I feel like I have been doing this my whole life. I walk past the park along the lake in Toolo where the fragrance of planted flowers masks the scent of the homeless, still hiding away in slumber. Climb aboard the train to Russia. I take a status check: blister on foot has reappeared, water in watch has disappeared. Right knee hurts, legs and back sore but not too bad. Beard growing – electric razor has run out of juice. May have poison ivy, either that or warts, spots have appeared on thumb, forehead and left thigh. Toenails getting quite long. Running out of soap, and clothes smell. Other than that, all systems go. The train takes off, we ride for a few hours, then the announcement comes that we are nearing the Russian border. The train slows then halts, and a group of sneering people in uniforms board, striding disgustedly through the train cars. They collect passports and paperwork from everyone systematically, then disappear. I assume this is where the fun could conceivably begin. But astonishingly, they return a little while later and I seem to have the green light, stamps on everything and whoo hoo. The train remains at the station without moving, however. Soon comes another announcement that there is an electrical problem and that there will be a delay. The train gets hotter and hotter. People fan themselves, sweat visibly. “Could we get some ice?” one guy asks. “A woman is sick here.” We begin to feel like cattle in boxcars, sweltering as the sun beats down on the metal roof. But after an hour or so the train gets moving again, although the air is still off and it remains hot. I go and get myself a beer to celebrate my success at the border. I come back, sit down and watch the trees out the window. A pretty barefoot girl sits next to me, I watch her for a while as well. And suddenly, safe in the knowledge that I am securely within Russia, I am electrified, I feel like I am fifteen again, I am ready to take on the world, hop on one foot to Vladivostok, hitchhike to China, stowaway across the Pacific and hike it on home, I am invincible. Another few hours, and we pull into St. Petersburg. Sure enough, there are those crazy signs. I wander into the station cluelessly, surrounded by cyrillic. First I find a bank to change euros into rubles (based on the pictures on the wall). Coming out, a taxi driver offers me a ride in a cab, but I decide to be adventurous and try the metro. I get a token and descend on the longest, fastest escalator in the history of mankind into the subways, this thing burrows into the bowels of hell itself. (In fact, I read later that it is indeed the deepest subway system in the world). I know the line I need but not the direction, I guess and hop on. My guess is correct, and five stops later I transfer, guess again (2 for 2) and voila I am at Nevskiy station. I get out, the sun is blazing. I walk for ten minutes and after spinning around a bit, lost locally, I ask a few people for help in rudimentary terms and finally find the hostel. The Nord hostel is a great little place here, an upgrade from most of the other hostels, free towels and bed sheets, free internet, free breakfast, shuttle to the airport, lockers, air conditioning. I was actually expecting an adventure, and am thankful that it is otherwise. I go upstairs, collapse on the bed and pass out, dog tired. I am more tired than I realized, I sleep for hours. It rains a bit while I do. After I wake up, I chat with an older couple in the room, they are from California. She is a meek, soft-spoken, peaceful creature with white hair and has almost an air of nobility about her, he is a tall bald fellow originally from Russia, and he has a bad cold. His voice is raspy and strained as he talks. She tells me she had her bag stolen while they were in Moscow. I tell them about my adventures with pneumonia while in Germany, and they say that the air quality is quite poor here. I take my leave, and walk up and down Nevskiy prospect a bit (the main drag). I eat at McDonalds, too tired to mess with local cuisine yet – leave that for tomorrow. Ketchup is an extra nine rubles. A guy on the street is twirling metal rods in the air while they are on fire, entertaining the spectators. There is evidently quite a bit of money here – I see fancy limousines on the street and upscale restaurants here and there. The girls seem to like to get dressed up, they wear fancy clothes, short skirts, high heels, lots of makeup. Some good-looking women here as well, for sure. I stop in at a bar with a music motif, pictures of Led Zeppelin and the Beatles and Bob Dylan on the walls. I get a few beers, try to practice my working vocabulary of about five russian words on the bartender, Anton. His range in English is about the same, so we don’t make much headway. There is a picture of Ian Anderson on the wall from Jethro Tull (one of my favorite bands), I mime playing the flute and try to indicate that I like him. In response, I think he is trying to tell me that Ian actually ate or at least stopped in at the bar at one point. I finish my beer, locate a supermarket to get some stuff, and head back to the hostel. When I get back, there is a line for the bathroom, so I go down a level to the reception desk and ask for a toilet down there. The girl points me to s set of metal double doors in the stairwell. I go in, it looks like a private suite of some sort, like a penthouse for someone who is willing to pay extra. There are a few different rooms, larger beds, a TV. I use the bathroom, come out, and to my complete surprise find that I can’t find the exit. I wander in circles; the only doors I can find are two white double doors which are locked. I pound on the door like an idiot, “Can anybody hear me?” It is like a scene from The Twilight Zone. I am trapped in a small Russian room forever, to be entombed here for all eternity, never to be heard from again. Futilely, I circle around the place once more, then resume calling for help. I pound on the door so hard that suddenly my fist goes through it, cutting my hand and sending pieces of wood everywhere. I peer in through the gaping hole and see another bedroom beyond it. This is obviously not how I came in. And if I ever do get out, I will now be sent to a Russian prison for attempted burglary. Finally, I realize that the doorway out is actually in the closet, which has a back wall colored black that completely conceals the door itself. Free at last, free at last. I go back upstairs quickly, and go to bed, hoping that no one will notice the hole for a while.

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7/9

July 18th, 2007

In the morning, the three other guys in the room tell me they were chased out of their original room by a strange smelly guy who was talking to himself. We arrive at about ten am, everyone files out slowly, and I am in Helsinki, a bit tired and disoriented, but none the worse for wear. I walk across town, past a group of homeless gathered in a small park. A fat old hag is trying to undress her ragged and very addled partner. He stumbles and spins in circles as she tries to get his pants off. She punches him in the head, and he reels, then falls on the ground. This enrages her further, she runs around screaming and waving, then runs up and kicks him square in the face. I want to move to intervene, but feel helpless. She seems to settle down a bit as he lies motionless. Such a world we live in. I trudge north, it is a long walk to the Olympic stadium, where the hostel is. I find it with little problem, check in and dump my stuff. I grab a shower, then chat with a pretty German girl in the common room, along with a guy in his sixties from North Carolina who is going to try to ride his motorcycle clear across Siberia to Vladivostok. I tell him I will be satisfied if they just let me into the country. I walk back into town, see the rock church and the Senate building, then head down to the water. There are stands everywhere, selling trinkets and jewelry and food. Near the food stands, the seagulls hover everywhere, ready to strike. They are very aggressive, the customers have to cover their food as they walk away or the birds will pounce on it, and if the girl working the stall isn’t vigilant they come right down and snatch the goodies straight out of the cauldron. She spends half her time attending to customers and half waving an arm or a foot to shoo them away. Off to the side sitting on a wall, a seagull laughs raucously at the whole spectacle, cackling most human-like. I walk down to a park along the water to the south and lie down for a while, then come back up to catch a tour of Suomenlinna Fortress, which sits on an island nearby. The ferry zips us across, I explore a bit then wander over to another outlying island (via bridge), scramble through the rocks and sit down by the water’s edge for a while, relaxing. It occurs to me how odd it is to be sitting on a small island off the coast of Finland, watching the sun go down like this. I savor the moment. After the return ferry, I hike back up to the hostel, stopping for a sandwich and a beer along the way. Drivers in Europe are very courteous towards pedestrians – if you are in a crosswalk they almost always slow down or stop to let you cross. If you try that in New York city, they will aim for you and earn an extra fifty points if they nail you. Sit with a crowd at the hostel and watch the World Cup final, Italy wins the prize. Zidane, the French star, headbutts a guy in the chest and gets ejected, quite amusing. A group of Italians in the room boisterously celebrate the victory as I head for bed.

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7/8

July 18th, 2007

In the morning, I take a walk back into the city to go to the Vasa museum, stopping for fish and chips along the way. It contains a gigantic ship from the fifteenth century, which sunk on its maiden voyage but was found again in the harbor in the 1950s and was pulled out of the water, remarkably intact. Quite an impressive exhibit. When I come out, it has clouded over, so I walk briskly back to the hostel to get my bag and head to the metro to catch the ferry to Helsinki. The ferry is a cruise ship, fully equipped with pools and shops and saunas and bars and restaurants, a gargantuan affair, there is even a casino down at one end. My cabin mates on the boat are three Swiss kids, again eighteen and nineteen, from Basel. After the boat gets going I get up and wander around, drink some beers, go up to the top deck and watch the seagulls weave their beautiful patterns in the air. I grab some food at one of the cafes, go back to the room and lay down. The Swiss kids have gone up to the top deck to drink a big bottle of vodka. Later on, one of them comes back in, goes to the toilet and pukes, then collapses on the bed. In another half an hour, the next guy comes in. He fumbles and staggers for a moment, then I hear him throw up all over the room, as he is unable to open the bathroom door. He collapses on the bed face first. In the dark, I hear him now throwing up on his pillow. The stench overwhelms me, I have to get out of there. So I gather my stuff and head down to the security guard on the lower level at five in the morning to ask if there are any other beds available. He sends me down to the bottom of the hull to a spare bed down there. The room is hot but at least I can lay down.

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7/7

July 18th, 2007

I sleep fitfully, the train sounds a horn frequently and shakes and rattles but I do manage a bit of shut-eye nevertheless. At seven am we are in Stockholm. I get off and hike the pack across town, through Gamla Stan and find my hostel, which is actually a boat sitting moored at a pier. It is pretty cool, the whole place sways on the waves slightly and the common room is a stately wooden marine-themed place with big leather chairs, but the sleeping rooms are the smallest I’ve ever seen. Four beds in each, with almost no room to move, you can barely get in, and the shower is more of the same. I lay down in the bunk and try to rest. A newcomer comes in after a bit, he is a young Hungarian guy. “I can’t believe how small this room is,” he says in his curious accent. “I am astonished. I don’t know if I will ever sleep.” He lays down for a while. “This is the smallest room I have ever been in.” David (the Hungarian) and the other guy in our room, Toby (from Germany) sit around chatting for a while, we all decide to check out the town together. We walk through Gamla Stan, the old town, a pleasant place with a slightly medieval feel to it, then head up north into the newer section of town, a street crowded with shoppers and stores and cafes and the usual. Stockholm is relaxed and agreeable, like the rest of Scandanavia. The people passing by seem like they don’t have a care in the world. My companions are good guys, Toby is carefree, likes to surf and check out girls, David is irascible in a likeable sort of way, an inquisitive and spirited fellow. We walk to a nearby island via a bridge, grab a snack, then head back down south. An attractive brunette comes towards us, wanting us to donate money for some cause and speaking Swedish. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I like the sound of it,” Toby says. We stop at a supermarket, get beers and drink them on the street (technically an infraction, but we’re told that the cops here will most likely look the other way). Then, after a stroll around the area south of the water, we head back to our boat-hostel, climbing down a spiraling stairway along a cliff to find our way. It has been a very hot day and my clothes are soaked through with sweat, and I am tired of the damn sun relentlessly beating down on me. I didn’t think Sweden ever got this hot – it must have been near ninety degrees. I have a shower and crash for a while in the common room, rocking along with the waves peacefully. I meet up with Toby, we go up on the top deck of the boat and drink beers. We talk about this and that, he tells me that the Polish have a reputation for being thieves and that the unemployment rate in some places there is as high as fifty percent. Pity the poor of the world. Toby leaves to go hang with some chicks across town, after he does some Scottish girls aged eighteen and nineteen come bubbling up to me and ask me to go buy beer for them. Sure, why not, they are elated and babble cheerfully at me for a while, then go out to get chow. The beer should be there by nine, they advise, so that they can then get ‘blitzed’ before moving on to the next party. I am a good pack animal / scavenger, I will dig it up and provide because, really, I have nothing else to do anyway. I drink beers on the boat aimlessly, time passes. Go back to the room, lay down for a while. David comes in, sits down. “I don’t like this city,” he says. “There are no fucking benches.” He putters back and forth a bit. “The boat is rocking, I will be vomiting soon.” He sits down, ponders things for awhile. “I am serious about the fucking benches, though. And when you find one, it is not comfortable. It forces you to sit how you don’t want to sit.” After a while I get up, get a few six packs for the girls and come back. They are up on the top deck again, and invite me to play a drinking game with them. Later, Toby and David turn up, and we all drink and talk and laugh, everyone is having a good time. The girls are cute, so excited by everything, and I love the Scottish accents. One of them is interested in me, she sits down next to me and talks to me and tells me I have a nice ass. Another one of them has a hilarious laugh, it sounds like a pigeon cooing in fast forward, I crack up every time she does. Another one is like a little china doll, so small and fragile. She has a streak of pink in her hair, I tell her it looks like she has had a tussle with a flamingo. We drink late into the night, then people disperse. I meet David in the hall going back to the room. “There is a seven foot woman in our room,” he tells me. He sounds worried about it for some reason. And he is right, there is a giant woman lying in the bed next to mine. In the morning, she disappears as quickly as she came.

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7/6

July 18th, 2007

Get a decent night’s rest, get up and hop on the train back to Oslo. Today is the marathon journey – I have a seven hour train to Oslo, a four hour layover then a ten hour overnight train to Stockholm. The train is less full than last time, so there are no dramatics involving cats or dogs or bears or volcanoes or any such thing. I sit and watch the splendid countryside pass me by in the bright sunshine. Later, a couple of punky kids sit down near me. One of them is playing wacky dance music in his earphones at deafening volume. At the stop they get off and smoke a joint, and disembark a few stops later. The rest of the trip is uneventful and relaxing, and we pull into Oslo at around five thirty. I grab some tacos, drink a few beers, killing time until the train at ten. I get restless and wander out to a park, lay down for awhile. A big Lassie dog walks up to me, I pet his head. He barks with delight. I hop on the overnight train, the cabins hold six people in a space comparable to a bread box. It is myself, three Indians and two others. I notice that the native Norwegians have been allocated their own six-bed cabins all to themselves, while all the tourists have been crammed together like cattle. I procrastinate going to bed, instead hanging out the window in the cool evening air and watching things rush by. It is magical out there, lush green farmland giving way to forests and valleys. I see a moose hurrying across an open field, heading for the treeline, then a few scattered deer. A group of horses scampers away from the tracks as the train passes by. Goats and sheep and cows are sprinkled here and there in the dusk. I look on in wonder, utterly transfixed. I stand by the window for hours. Midnight is approaching and it is still not dark yet, but in the dimming light the train goes up a hill along a straightaway and we are heading straight at the moon hanging low in the sky, orange-hued and dressed in silken clouds. I take this to bed with me.

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7/5

July 18th, 2007

I once again lie awake before the alarm at seven, shower and walk down to the train station. Today, I have a tour of the fjords scheduled. The tour starts at eight, but at ten of eight the ticket girl is telling me, “You know this tour leaves from the harbor, don’t you?” No, I didn’t, and the e-mail confirmation said nothing about it either. I sprint across town and barely make the ferry in time. The ferry proceeds north along the coast at a rapid clip. First I sit next to a woman who is a lawyer in Manhattan. “The fjords are 6,000 kilometers deep,” she tells me. Wow, you don’t say. Next, after we transfer to another ferry, a girl named Sybilla from Germany sits down next to me. Her English is broken but we have a good time, she teaches me random words in German. I am finding the tour a bit disorganized, there is very little central direction and one must listen carefully to the cryptic announcements in order to know what to do next. We board another ferry from our current one right out in the sea itself, and then turn from the Sojnefjord (which is the longest fjord in Norway) into a smaller branch to the south. The fjords are breathtaking, steep hard rock angling down from the heights into the mysteries of the still green water below, winding all the while deeper into the misty distance. This place is a natural shrine, free from human interference, a cathedral of earth and rock and sea and sky. It is a place that is difficult to put properly into words. The boat tour wraps up at a small village which includes a mock Viking settlement, complete with huts, boats, weapons, shields, etc. We take the bus to the train and get back to Bergen. On the bus I talk to an animated old Italian man who talks a blue streak, you can’t get a word in edgewise. He has terrifyingly bad teeth, they are black and brown and yellow and he dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief once in a while. He tells me all about the World Cup, and then moves on to world affairs, where he solves a majority of the world’s problems within a span of forty-five minutes or so. He is a highly amusing old fellow. After a quick dinner (at 7-Eleven!), I head back to the hostel once more. Watch a little World Cup, there are a couple of Polish guys drinking, hard looking strong-armed working class types. One is hosting drinking contests and toasting all the girls and laughing merrily. The blasted French prevail in the game, so it will be Italy and France in the final. I drink a few beers, then go back and chat with Lisa in our beds for a while. Even in darkness she is radiant. She shows me a picture of her husband, he looks like a prick. Lisa has been to the Shetland Islands recently to visit her grandfather. She is so comfortable and good-natured and unaware; I guess when everything goes right for you, you wind up with a pretty good disposition.

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7/4

July 18th, 2007

Up in the morning and on the train to Bergen. I had heard this is one of the most beautiful train rides in the world, and it truly lives up to expectations. Tall stately green trees, deep blue still water lakes, farms and waving meadows and rocky promontories, gurgling streams, wild flowers, all lit up in the bright summer sunshine. This must be one of the most beautiful places on earth. The deciduous trees turn to pine steadily as we move west. The conditions within the train itself are decidedly different, however. The train is very hot, no air, and I am all the way at the back in the last car. I think the ticket girl has once again played Screw With The Tourist because I must have the worst seat on the train. It is one of about four total seats that faces the other passengers like an interrogation, and I only have half a window to look through. There are dogs and cats all over the car, little ones, big ones. I am very allergic to cats, and I start to feel my breathing turn shallow. I think about asking the conductor to move me, but decide not to. Two Norwegian women, one younger and one older, sit in the two seats across from me. The older lady places the plastic carrying case with her two dogs in it on the seat next to me, trapping me in. The two dogs look like a cross between rats and vampire bats. They start to bark. One of them takes a dump, smelling up the compartment. The lady takes the dog out, getting shit on her pants. The girls tell me they are getting off at a stop half way, so I look forward to this so that I can take the girl’s seat, spread out and face the right direction. Five minutes before they leave, the younger girl gets up and goes to the bathroom, one of the little dogs manages to get out and promptly pisses in the seat I want. This is some sort of cosmic conspiracy, and I would like to lodge a formal complaint with whoever is in charge. But worse things have happened before, I suppose. In a little while, the trees grow very sparse, then disappear altogether. Then, suddenly off to our left I see snow! Pockets of snow dotting the landscape. It must be eighty degrees out. There is an announcement that we are at maximum speed and up at about seven thousand feet or so in elevation. Through a tunnel and then again to the left there is a giant glacier, slumbering in the hills, presiding over crystal clear lakes and streams down below. The train stops, I get out and realize it is actually a bit chilly, not eighty degrees like before. I bask in the scenery, the absolute majesty of nature as she still is in the furthermost outposts of the world, as she once was everywhere. We get going again, I watch the cat a few seats back, she is mesmerized, her eyes dart everywhere, she mewls plaintively and licks her lips, she wants to be out there, out in the middle of all that. So do I. I spend the last hours on the train with a wonderful Norwegian couple, on the older side, who speak halting English but are a pleasure to spend the afternoon with. They have a summer cottage outside of Bergen and like the Rolling Stones. A legion of Japanese march into the train at one stop, then methodically march out again a few stops later, part of some tour apparently. I get off at the train station and find my hostel, then my room, and lying in the bed next to mine is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, an absolute vision, just waking up from a nap. Her name is Lisa, and she looks Norwegian but is from California. She will keep me up all that night just from the mere presence of her next to me. I go out to explore Bergen, which is a truly charming little town. At its center is a fish market down by the harbor, and a string of rustic houses stretches into the background up on to the sizeable slope on the city’s northern flank. Here in the warmth of summer, Bergen feels like a paradise, pretty and clean and relaxed, a model community, safe and picturesque, meandering cobblestone streets and churches and scenic views, but I can just imagine how cold it must get in the winter months. The prices are once again ridiculous, as well. I hang out at an idyllic little lake in a park near the train station for a while as the sun drops lower in the sky, then go back for some World Cup at the hostel bar. I go to bed and try to sleep, unsuccessfully due to the beautiful girl and all the commotion (lights going on, people shuffling around, doors opening etc.).

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