First Norway Biking Day

Today would decide whether I could deal with the hills. I was depending on them to kick my metabolism into gear, but I didn’t know if my old-ass knees could handle so much pedaling with such a stupid amount of gear.

But first: A croissant!

Good spot for a mocha and some baked goods.

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Good spot for a mocha and some baked goods.

Chomped it right outside the place, standing in the sun.

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Chomped it right outside the place, standing in the sun.

I was reluctant to leave the downtown. It had a kind of quiet bustle that felt very Scandinavian, like a calmer version of the seaside town of Santa Cruz back home. But there was exploring to do!

Standard town scene in Kristiansand.

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Standard town scene in Kristiansand.

Interesting memorial.

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Interesting memorial.

Very conspiritorial!

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Very conspiritorial!

I went for the Eurovelo 1 route, which passed through the city. Immediately there was a problem: The main cycling tunnel under the highway was closed for construction. I had to pedal over a busy bridge instead. Was this a sign of things to come?

I assume the signs read “DON’T, STUPID!”

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I assume the signs read “DON’T, STUPID!”

On the edge of town I stopped to finish the croissant and the mocha I’d perched in the cupholder. I really like the cupholder. It’s an accessory and also a mission statement about the way I ride: Slowly enough that coffee never gets a chance to slosh out.

Lots of industry happening.

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Lots of industry happening.

Below me I could see some of the construction that had caused me trouble earlier. Looks like a new train tunnel.

The first hill out of town was definitely steep, and there were more right after it. I had been expecting to enter dense forest as soon as the hills began, establishing a clear difference between Norway and the nearly forest-free Iceland coast I pedaled five years ago. Instead it was a patchwork, more like California. Summer in Norway equals winter in California, apparently — at least at sea level.

A few hills later I shot down into Langenes, a seaside town almost too small to have a name. All the properties by the water had this well-integrated look, like the residents had spent years – perhaps generations – thoughtfully building channels and stacking rocks to make use of the sea. I stopped a bunch of times to eat snacks and just look around, taking in the detail and working out the choices people had made over time.

I love the way this property is so integrated with the sea.

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I love the way this property is so integrated with the sea.

A fine day by the shore. Me and the birds agree.

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A fine day by the shore. Me and the birds agree.

EIther that rock face is enormous, or that house is very small…

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EIther that rock face is enormous, or that house is very small…

Aha, the house is very small!

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Aha, the house is very small!

A few kids on bikes rolled by in the opposite direction, and waved hello. A woman walking her dog stopped to mess with her phone, then said hello as she passed. Everyone was in a nice mood.

Lots of things to do in Sogne!

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Lots of things to do in Sogne!

I found a very weather-beaten kiosk that listed activities for visitors. It came with a map that showed an earlier, mostly accurate version of the Eurovelo 1 route. It was a good sign that the drivers around me would be expecting cyclists. It also reminded me I had many days of hill ahead, before the land would flatten somewhat and become farms for a while.

Along with the kiosk, I found quite a variety of road signs:

Farts demper… That how I refer to my trousers!

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Farts demper… That how I refer to my trousers!

Luckily the delay was long enough for a slow bicyclist to make it through!

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Luckily the delay was long enough for a slow bicyclist to make it through!

Whatever this sign says, I agree with it.

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Whatever this sign says, I agree with it.

Haven’t seen any in person yet, but I’m sure I will soon.

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Haven’t seen any in person yet, but I’m sure I will soon.

Haven’t seen one in this country yet, but there’s always a chance…

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Haven’t seen one in this country yet, but there’s always a chance…

Apparently people in Norway do the same target practice with roadsigns that we do back home…

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Apparently people in Norway do the same target practice with roadsigns that we do back home…

Back home this would be a “ghost bike” marking a highway death of a cyclist. Not sure what it means here.

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Back home this would be a “ghost bike” marking a highway death of a cyclist. Not sure what it means here.

I also began to see large amounts of cut firewood, organized in different ways. There were competing standards apparently. I knew Norwegians took their firewood seriously but it was amusing to see this fact playing out right along the side of the road.

Pretty serious about wood around here.

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Pretty serious about wood around here.

It was also a reminder that I was immersed in a culture that had different – and more consistent – standards about the respect of other people’s property. Back in the USA there were similar places, but they were mixed in with places where, if you left a pile of organized firewood out by the side of a public road with no signage, it would soon vanish into the beds of passing pickup trucks.

The takers might even conjure some kind of justification in their heads as they loaded it up, for example, “This must have been stacked here by the county utility after they cut down some tree that was too close to a power line. By grabbing some, I’m being helpful!”

Other things I passed:

Small chunks of farmed land with a single house and barn on them, looking suspiciously well organized, as though the owners were pursuing a lifestyle rather than a business.

Another burned-out property that appeared to be the victim of some heating device gone rogue.

Some very expensive looking boats, and a lot of boathouses built right onto the water. The tides didn’t move much in this region so the gaps could be small.

A particularly tidy barn.

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A particularly tidy barn.

Huh, another burned out house. Are people leaving their candles lit and falling asleep?

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Huh, another burned out house. Are people leaving their candles lit and falling asleep?

The Norwegians love their boathouses!

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The Norwegians love their boathouses!

Why put hooks in the ground when you can just use water?

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Why put hooks in the ground when you can just use water?

The combination of boats and manicured land reminded me of super-affluent regions in California. Over there, if you wanted a lifestyle like this, you first needed the land, which would probably cost you five or ten times more than here, and a similar amount in taxes in absolute terms. If you farmed it was very likely you were already wealthy, and farming for the hell of it — for example to make your own toy brand of wine.

There were of course serious farms in California – lots of them – but they tended to be inland, larger, and had a busier, slightly cluttered look, because the owners were constantly planting, repairing, harvesting, digging, fertilizing, et cetera.

Then again, I was probably reading too much into the distinction here, in economic terms. It’s likely that a small, manicured farm here is not just a lifestyle choice but is integrated enough with collective efforts in adjacent farms to make the profit margins worthwhile. It’s also likely I was seeing lots of small farms because there had been a country-wide movement to subdivide large ones, creating “cluster farms” run by individual families. The distribution of land ownership in California had taken a very different route.

(Fun fact: In terms of land area, Norway is only 10% smaller than California!)

Whooohoo bridge!

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Whooohoo bridge!

Pretty cool view to the north.

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Pretty cool view to the north.

After a particularly steep hill, I crossed a high bridge and descended into another small town. It was a long day of riding and I was running low on snacks. Eventually I turned to the bag of brazil nuts I’d carried all the way here from a Sacramento food co-op. Bland, but filling…

Down one hill, up another…

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Down one hill, up another…

Super cool shed, bro!

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Super cool shed, bro!

Having a wee snack on a wee hill.

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Having a wee snack on a wee hill.

Not sure what these little flowers are, but they’re pretty.

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Not sure what these little flowers are, but they’re pretty.

In the evening I reached the town of Mandal, and stopped just long enough to buy a massive pile of Thai food. The campground was in a forest on the west side.

It’s a self-serve operation here. Back home you exchange canisters and some company fills them up.

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It’s a self-serve operation here. Back home you exchange canisters and some company fills them up.

This time, if the tent started deflating in the middle of the night, I didn’t have nearby branches for attaching lines. All I could do was hope…

A smooth deployment of the overcomplicated campsite!

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A smooth deployment of the overcomplicated campsite!

It had been a long day with a lot of hills, but definitely a success. My legs had done well. No stiffness, just a general whole-body feeling of exhaustion, and the Thai food was helping with that.

Onward to the next day!

Escaflowne Corner, Episode 2

Lots of fantastical scenery, a couple more characters, and some choice mech sword-clashing.  It’s all such a 90’s anime time capsule.  Once again, Hitomi saves the day with premonitions and female rage. Looks like this is going to be a pattern.

Is Hitomi’s immaturity a calculated choice by writers to appeal to young boys … or a side effect of Japanese anime artists being ignorant about how women work in general, in the very buttoned-down and segregated culture of 90’s Japan?

Repairs and Exploring Kristiansand

Slept pretty well. I wanted to just poke around the city all day, but first I had to take the tent apart and figure out why it didn’t hold air. With all my gear shoved to the corners of the room there was just enough space to test the thing.

Using the indoor space to test the tent again.

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Using the indoor space to test the tent again.

I pulled the 15-foot bladder out of the strut and patiently immersed sections of it in the sink, looking for bubbles that would show me a leak. I didn’t see any, but I did find a stowaway:

A stowaway from California! It would have caused trouble no doubt.

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A stowaway from California! It would have caused trouble no doubt.

Finally I saw something when I reached the very end: Air was slowly leaking from the valve itself. The soft plastic ring underneath the cap had scratches all over it, probably from me jabbing around the valve with a pair of pliers when I was putting the tent back together last time. I flipped the ring over, then tested the valve. No leak, as long as I didn’t over-tighten it.

It took a long time to get the bladder back in the strut, line it up, hook the layers back together, and re-inflate the tent. I left it standing in the middle of the room. If it was still fine when I came back in the evening, I was good to go.

Before setting out, I took another look at the map of the downtown. There’s a decommissioned building in the center of town that used to be … a prison!  It held 44 inmates.  It was shut down only six years ago when a larger one opened nearby. (As an aside, it’s hilarious that Wikipedia has a category page called Defunct prisons in Norway.)

A recent fire. This would be the beginning of a pattern I saw as I went around Norway.

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A recent fire. This would be the beginning of a pattern I saw as I went around Norway.

I didn’t go in… Though I probably should have!

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I didn’t go in… Though I probably should have!

The touristy fishy part of town.

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The touristy fishy part of town.

All kinds of fresh noms for sale!

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All kinds of fresh noms for sale!

Down near the coast I found a restaurant that promised fish stew and fish and chips. So I ordered both, and ate them very slowly, listening to the birds and the inscrutable conversations around me, and generally unwinding. It was the first time in three days that I wasn’t being, or about to be, a passenger on some transport.

It was pretty dang good soup! I ate it very slowly.

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It was pretty dang good soup! I ate it very slowly.

Pretty good fisk and kips, but I know there’s better out there…

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Pretty good fisk and kips, but I know there’s better out there…

Near me a large group of old Norwegian folks were arrayed on benches around an open space, all in their 70’s or 80’s, having a slow discussion about — something or other.  One guy had his beer set on my table, and didn’t bother to move it when I sat down. I didn’t mind of course. It was a little hint of that flexibility of personal space I saw in Iceland.

Time to check out the museumy part of the shore.

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Time to check out the museumy part of the shore.

After that I decided it was time to walk around and gaze at stuff, so I rode over to the Museum Of Art, where there was an exhibition of the portraiture of Edvard Munch.  I browsed through some nifty local kids art on the bottom floor, then put my stuff in a locker and got a ticket for the “real” museum upstairs.

Let’s see some portretter.

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Let’s see some portretter.

You check your stuff and get a key, instead of hauling it all over the museum.

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You check your stuff and get a key, instead of hauling it all over the museum.

Letter thievery!

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Letter thievery!

I think these were made by art students? Adorable.

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I think these were made by art students? Adorable.

More art student art.

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More art student art.

This one was especially striking to me.

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This one was especially striking to me.

I worked my way almost all around that floor when a typically adorable young Norwegian staff member came up and said the place would close in two minutes.

“Oh no!” I said.  “There’s so much more to see!”

“Well, you still have two minutes!” she said brightly.

After that, I cycled around looking for ice cream but the store I targeted was closed, and the next place was a really American-looking bulk candy shop, so I gave up. No evening treat for me! I still had leftover fish and chips from the restaurant so I certainly wouldn’t starve.

Back at the AirBnB the tent was still just as upright as before, which was fantastic news. I probably wouldn’t have had enough time to take it apart and look for another leak. I rolled it up and packed the large bags, getting as ready as possible for the next day.

Then I remembered: I had a leftover cookie from the bakery in Hirtshals! Mmmm. With no good reason to leave the AirBnB for the night, I realized it would be a good time to start an episode Vision Of Escaflowne, since I was actually in Norway as I’d planned.

That was kind of weird.  I’d first had the idea of re-watching this series at least five years ago, and made a note about it in my travel plans, but I couldn’t remember why.  The connection between the cartoon and Norway was tenuous:  The main character Hitomi reminded me of a woman I’d dated in college, and that woman was from a family that emigrated to the United States from Norway. Or had it been Sweden?

Ex-girlfriend connection or no, Vision Of Escaflowne is fantastical and dramatic – a story about a girl who blunders through a magic portal into a swords-and-sorcery otherworld – and the idea of watching it in a far-off place was appealing.  Norway would have lots of big spaces and I would be traveling it alone, putting me in an introspective mood, and I could watch the show and think about my angst-ridden college days as well.  Plus, the show was 20-something episodes, which would be just enough to make my way around the coast watching one episode per day.

After so many years of this plan drifting around in the back of my head, it felt very strange to actually be in the place where it could happen. Here I was in Norway, and it had only taken ten days of travel away from my “normal” life. Is this what I’d been picturing, years ago?  A little seaside town – chilly but not freezing – a grid of affluent streets at the end of a ferry port and a train terminal, a cramped and slightly rustic AirBnB room?  This massive pile of gear?

I really couldn’t remember. But I poured a glass of Norway water and set the cookie on a napkin, put on headphones, and watched the first episode.

Here begins Escaflowne Corner, where I write whatever thoughts I have about the day’s episode. This is definitely of no interest to anyone but me, so it’s in a disclosure section:

Ferry To Kristiansand

My emergency twig supports did their job. As I struck camp I made plans to spend some of the next day taking the tent apart to find the leak and patch it. I was grateful I’d remembered to bring patches…

Somehow the tent stayed up all night, so I didn’t have to.

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Somehow the tent stayed up all night, so I didn’t have to.

Packed back on the bike, for now…

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Packed back on the bike, for now…

I made my way into town, intent on breakfast — several breakfasts, if possible. It was so far before the tourist season that most of the restaurants were closed.

Subtle, but effective lions.

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Subtle, but effective lions.

I swear, I’ve seen this exact statue all over the Western world.

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I swear, I’ve seen this exact statue all over the Western world.

Locals call it “ol’ sparkly” (This has not been fact-checked.)

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Locals call it “ol’ sparkly” (This has not been fact-checked.)

I watched the traffic, and turned down whichever street had more cars on it. I found one open bakery and loaded up on rolls and sandwiches.

Lots of bread, but still a pretty good breakfast sando.

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Lots of bread, but still a pretty good breakfast sando.

The next ferry to Kristiansand was in two hours. There wasn’t much to do in town so I decided to just roll down to the terminal and hang out; maybe sort photos or listen to an audiobook. The route took me past a large building that my map identified as the Nordsøen Oceanarium. I didn’t have enough time to look around inside, but the music they had playing near the entrance was so boisterous and charming that I just had to get a recording on my phone.

I have no idea what the lyrics are, but I imagine it’s some jolly story about swimming in the ocean with mermaids and fish!

Gee I think I showed up a bit early.

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Gee I think I showed up a bit early.

In line waiting to be assigned a place in line…

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In line waiting to be assigned a place in line…

I pedaled on, and found the ferry terminal. I parked the bike in the lee of the nearest gatehouse and assembled my portable camping chair, then opened the lappy to sort photos.  With the wind factored out, the sun warmed up my jacket and pants and I felt surprisingly comfortable.  So much so that an hour flew by, and the next time I looked up the line of cars was moving.  I repacked the chair and joined the line.

In the second line, after all the cyclists and motorcyclists were clustered together, one of the motorcyclists moseyed over to me for a conversation, starting with my weird bicycle and then ranging around.  A friendly fellow, probably about 60 years old, with blond hair and a squint. I asked where he was from.

“A little island near the middle of Denmark.”

I was intrigued. He looked a lot like my uncle Denny and I guessed we were probably related somewhere five or six generations back. He had a tough-looking motorbike kitted with sturdy metal boxes full of gear, and a bedroll lashed across them.

I asked, “Coming up to Norway for a vacation?”

“Oh yes,” he said.  “I’ve done this trip lots.  For me it’s only three hours or so on the bike, and I get to the ferry.  Very easy to go.  There’s lots to see in Norway, and the roads are good, and there is almost no traffic outside the main cities like Oslo and Bergen.”

“Sounds great!” I said.

“Yes, you’ll like it!  Except for the tunnels.  Some of them you can go through on a bicycle, but if you do, it’s dark and very cold, and they can be very long.  Many of them have bypass roads.  Everyone in a car uses the tunnel, so they don’t need the bypass roads.  So they’ve been making the bypass roads bicycle only.  It’s great.  You’ll like those.”

“Definitely.”

“What’s your route?” he asked.

We hunkered over my phone and I gave him a rough outline. I said, “I’ll stay on the coast for a while, but I want to go inland later.  Is it going to be cold?”

He shrugged. “If you go in May, not too cold.  The snow is already gone from the coast.  You’ll find some when the elevation goes up, but the roads will be good.  Sometimes you get five, seven meters of snow, and the roads are like tunnels.”

“Five or seven meters?” I was agog. I’d been along plowed roads where the snow was like a wall, as much as ten feet high, but he was talking about twice that.

“April is really still winter, outdoor-wise,” he said. “Ski-resorts like Hemsedal and Geilo have open lifts and trails in April, but at the same time, the spring flowers are blooming down in Oslo and Bergen. The mountain roads will be open, but the daytime temperature there might be 0 to 10 degrees, even if the weather is sunny.”

I assumed he meant 0 to 10 degrees in Celsius. Converting temperature in my head was going to be a challenge for the next few months.

Around us the cars were starting their engines, and the other bikers were putting their helmets on. I thanked him for the advice and we wished each other well.

I was the only cyclist on the entire ferry. I wasn’t surprised.

The one bicycle on the boat, lashed to the railing.

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The one bicycle on the boat, lashed to the railing.

Many cars … and me

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Many cars … and me

Passing the lighthouse…

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Passing the lighthouse…

There’s a city out there…

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There’s a city out there…

After we parked, all the passengers gathered at tables in a large room upstairs. A very suave-sounding captain spoke over the P.A. and said we should take advantage of the executive lounge, where we could get as many snacks as we wanted after paying an upgrade fee. He didn’t say what the fee was, so I assumed it was too much.

One of the youngest staff on the boat was a woman who looked in her early 20’s.  She spent part of the voyage walking around with a large basket of small snacks, offering things to patrons, and the rest of the time with a box slung over one shoulder, going table to table and selling ice cream bars.  I couldn’t help thinking this role was a holdover from before the boat had a coffee bar and full-on dining service, and it was kept around for nostalgia purposes.  A strangely menial job for someone that age, but on the other hand, perhaps I’m bad at judging age here, or perhaps the job pays better than I expect, or perhaps it’s not her full-time role and they swap around each day.  

The woman had golden hair cut boyishly short and a strong jawline, and reminded me a lot of a girl I’d had a crush on all the way back in the 5th grade.  Weird how these memories stick.  It made me want to flirt with her, which would have been deeply inappropriate for a lot of reasons, mostly because I’m more than old enough to be her father.

During the trip, the televisions that hung from arms in the ceiling all around the room displayed a repeating loop of perfume ads: Toned women and men in wacky clothing, posing in unearthly environments, splashing in water or fake lava, all with expressions on their faces between “I’m about to fall asleep” and “someone just cut in front of me in line for the bathroom.” It took me most of the journey to figure out why: The on-board market was crammed with different kinds of perfume for sale. Why that? Because perfume is very expensive for the weight, not an essential good (so it’s not likely to be stolen), and it never spoils. Perfect for a store in a location as awkward as a boat.

When it was time to leave, I rode casually to the front of the line inside the boat, and the crew waved me over to a position next to the lead car. I could tell the cars were full of impatient tourists because they were scooting pointlessly close together, as if their lives depended on keeping their neighbors from cutting in when the lines converged. The Norwegian drivers would be more considerate, no doubt.

The guard at the exit gate to the terminal asked me a bunch of questions about where I was going and how.  He seemed surprised that I’d brought the bike from America.  “Yeah, I took it apart and put it in a giant box, and brought it with me!” I said.

He made an incredulous expression, as if he was thinking “What will these lunatic cyclists do next?” But then he waved me through with a “Have a nice trip!”

I had arrived in Kristiansand. The downtown grid of streets was lively but mostly full of souvenir and clothing stores. I wanted a restaurant! I found my AirBnB on the other side of town and hauled the bags inside, then set out again.

As I rode away, I noticed three “rough gentlemen” in their 40’s or 50’s going in the other direction. Two were pushing beat-up bikes; one was coughing deeply.  Their clothing, posture, grooming, and general furtiveness implied to me that they were destitute and not welcome in the city.  I thought Norway didn’t have any so-called homeless people?  I realized I had to recalibrate my perceptions here. Maybe these men were just very tired dockworkers who’d been kicked out of a bar for partying too hard on a Monday? I’d been assuming that Norway was like Iceland, and had virtually zero crime.

Here’s a spoiler for you: For the next month, I would never feel the need to use my bike lock, with only four exceptions: Once in Stavanger, once in Haugesund, once in Bergen, and once in Oslo — not coincidentally the four largest cities I found myself in. Other than that, I just didn’t bother with the lock, and unless there was a hotel room I could walk the bike into, I would just leave it outside, leaning on the kickstand, bags and all.