Irritating Bergen's Communists

I came out on the west side of the mountains to the North Sea passing crystal clear lakes and deep fiords and arrived in Bergen about the end of the day.  It had been an eight hour trip from Oslo.  When the train pulled into the station I walked outside and found a vending machine where I ate a cold slimy eel - a first for me.  They eat a lot of fish in Bergen and you notice it in more ways than one. Like Norway in general, Bergen is a truly clean and inviting city although somewhat cold and damp.  In 1977 the wharf was beautiful with all the different multicolored boats and store fronts illuminated in bright September sunshine.

Tourist guide books say little about Bergen’s WWII history, but I know some of it.  It’s the port where the German battleship Bismarck left to prey on English shipping until a Swordfish’s torpedo ruined her rudder.  On April 20^th, 1944, Hitler’s birthday, a confiscated trawler loaded with tons of ammunition exploded in the Bergen harbor killing 160 people and blowing up much of the harbor area.  The Germans occupied Norway to protect their iron ore shipments that arrived in Narvik from Sweden.

Like I did in Munich five years before, I stumbled onto a communist demonstration held at the Sailor's Monument at the Torgalmenningen, but this was a manly communist demonstration unlike Munich and I told them it was impressive.  The perimeter guard teams accompanied by Dobermans were resplendent in their black leather outfits and black berets – just like our Black Panthers, only white.  The color combinations were right out of a Hollywood movie set.  The hammer and sickle flag was defiantly waving.  Oddly, their flag and banner combination of red with gold lettering was the same as the Marine Corps’.  When I lifted my camera for a picture, the red guards told me that photos were forbidden.  That didn’t make sense.  Why put on a colorful demonstration in a busy intersection with no pictures allowed?  They didn’t appreciate my criticism of the absence of English interpreters for us tourists either.  I know they must have gone back to their university dorms for a self-criticism session on this point.  I could have also talked to these people all day about the failures of Dialectical Materialism and Marxism-Leninism, but in spite of the dogs, I managed to sneak in a picture as I left.

Oslo, the Quiet City

I remember how clean the Oslo train station was with flowers lining the outside walls.  On a long walk I saw the famous Monolith which is shown in nearly all art history books.  Contrary to rumor, it was not where George W. Bush got the idea for stacking nude insurgent prisoners.  After all, these nudes are on a much higher column.  Supposing it was; it could not have been in worse taste like The Scream by Norwegian painter Edvard Munch.  I honestly don’t see how the cultural elites get away with it.  They must have deep pockets; who else would buy the stuff?  Look at the latest tribute to the rifle’s head shot: Francis Bacon’s Three Studies of Lucian Freud that went for an all-time record of $142,000,000.  Everyone at Christie’s New York can take the rest of the year off, but that’s another story.

On Karl Johansgt (street) I saw many of Olso’s old businesses: Adelsten, Brodrene Johnsten, Kaffistova, Pelo, Andvora, and The Scotsman, an upscale restaurant, that’s still there.  I enjoy the new technology of Google Street Level that allows me to look where I’ve been and see the new changes.  Of course, in 1977 the girls were wearing clogs and bell bottoms.  Now they don’t look as stylish and even if they did, where would they go?  At the time I didn’t see much nightlife in Oslo and I suppose it’s the same now.  Perhaps I’m wrong because so many years have passed.  What I saw then were only some small kiosks.  Even Liverpool at night came alive with neon signs advertising a robust night life.

 

About dark, I went back to the hotel for the only tub bath I had in all my backpacking days.  I always mention these little things because travel isn’t always what you see on TV.  You arrive.  Nobody knows you and you don’t know where to go.  Sometimes the tourist offices aren’t even near the train station – an irony I discovered more than once.  Several times I could have ended up sleeping in the local cemetery with shady characters from many parts of the world. 

The Norwegians were into smorgasbords like American are into buffets.  This was different than hoping for a McDonald’s or scavenging through my backpack for left overs and I made the opportunity count just as I do now in retirement.  Oslo is at the base of huge mountain ranges and who’d guess where I’d find my next meal going up into the snowcapped waste lands above the tree line and they are formidable.

The Trip to Oslo

Leaving the flatlands of Denmark and southern Sweden behind is a gentle and uneventful experience and you don’t notice much until you near Oslo.  I had developed a habit of taking pictures of the train stations like Kornsjo to record where I was and, besides, they are perfect places for photo opportunities of the locals.  By this time in September, it was apparent that the second haying season was ending in the lowlands.  I assume sheep and cattle were still up on the mountain slopes; I do not remember seeing either except for one small herd.  After mowing, the farmers probably brought them down to the stubble and winter forage areas.

 

I saw my first characteristic round Norwegian hills about this time and I didn’t notice the sea because the train ran inland until it approached the Olsofjorden at Moss.  Prior to that as I neared Fredrikstad, there appeared forests of pine trees and small ships docked in the oddest locations receiving their loads of cut wood.  Sawmills leave their sawdust stacked in huge piles near the docks.  The Beatle's song, Norwegian Wood was very fitting.  At first I thought the ships I saw ran on the rivers until I looked closely at my pictures many years later, but the sea on the horizon was a dead giveaway.  Heavy industry also pops up along these inlets just like in the Alps with the help of hydroelectric power. 

 

Ferries make their runs from Britain and elsewhere gliding into Oslo harbor past public housing that reminds me of the rectangular chips on a computer’s Mother Board.  I suppose it’s the same way elsewhere in Scandinavia until you near the older parts of towns that have traditional architecture.  That’s the new price of socialism, but in fairness, their public housing is far superior to ours – clean and well maintained.  At the conclusion of my Scandinavia adventures, I’ll show some of the most beautiful houses I saw and they aren’t remotely like the straight line cubist wonders that have sprung on the outskirts of most Scandinavian cities.