Fjordmongering

From London, we made our way through copious amounts of cloud cover to the northernmost destination that either of us had ever set foot upon. Touching down in Oslo, we quickly realized that Norway would be a marked contrast to our primarily-sundrenched travels to date. Our arrival was greeted by stern, overcast skies and temperatures at least an order of magnitude lower than we had experienced in recent weeks.

Our first impressions, based on Oslo Airport’s ubiquitous pale wooden tones, clean lines and friendly Asian-origin immigrations officer, invoked recollections of the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Once we emerged from the airport, however, we gained a more traditional perception of the country. We found ourselves surrounded by a host of tall, mostly-fit blonde men and women with backpacks and tow-head kids in tow (Norwegians are ranked second in the world for average height, but alas, the popular notion that everyone there looks like a model is a tad overblown).

As we waited for the train bringing us to the center of town, we were forced to unearth our long-forgotten North Face fleeces and rainjackets from the bottom of our bags. Upon arriving at Oslo’s National Theater stop a half an hour later, we quickly surveyed the ominous skies above before embarking upon a fifteen minute walk to our hotel. Ten minutes later, we were bombarded by a cold and unyielding downpour. Arriving at our hotel drenched and shivering, we had been thoroughly deterred from any imminent notions of emigrating to Scandinavia.

As we holed up in our room waiting for our shoes, socks and pants to dry out, we finalized our weeklong Norway itinerary, opting to spend the considerable majority of our stay surveying the country’s long western coastline. A few hours later, the clouds receded and we ventured into town to buy some reading material for our five consecutive nights on the Hurtigruten, a modern take on a Norwegian steamship. Our brief excursion quickly acquainted us with the strength of the Norwegian currency, the kroner.

Swimming in oil revenues (Norway is the world’s third largest oil exporter after Saudi Arabia and Russia and boasts over $280 billion in its national coffers), the entire country is essentially priced like a movie theater. Kaberi’s book purchasing was sadly limited to a mere $25 paperback copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns. Only imagining at what an Oslo restaurant meal would cost, we forlornly returned to our hotel to partake in the complementary “light supper” of soup and salad offered.

We awoke the next morning – Vik’s birthday, July 18 – to catch an early flight to Bodoe, a city located north of Oslo near the Arctic Circle. Ironically, Vik’s birthday wish had been a day of uninterrupted sleep, but what he received instead was a day of uninterrupted travel. After at an ungodly 5:00 a.m. wakeup call, we checked out of our hotel before local tram service commenced, leaving us to lug our bags during a hurried 15-minute walk to the train station. Once at the airport, we splurged on birthday breakfast muffins (delicious, but priced at a ludicrous $8 each), and bemoaned missing the free hotel breakfast.

After a 90-minute flight to Bodoe, we used the four hour layover before our connecting flight to fit in a neckstraining catnap or two. By 2:00 p.m., we had made our way via puddlejumper to Svolvaer, a picturesque town on the Lofoten islands located northwest of Bodoe. With four and a half hours to kill before the Hurtigruten docked in Svolvear, we headed straight for the largest grocery store in town (a Mega Coop) to stock up on foodstuffs in lieu of paying for the undoubtedly-exorbitant meals on the boat. A few hours later, we strolled along the docks before a stiff easterly wind forced us to seek shelter indoors. We soon discovered Bacalao, a friendly restaurant with creamy hot chocolate and free wireless internet access.

When we finally boarded the Hurtigruten, essentially a floating motel with an overzealous P.R. department, Vik spent the first hour choosing between two equally-unappealing available interior cabins on two different decks. After he finally chose the higher-situated of the two, we expeditiously unpacked our backpacks, transforming the cramped dresser drawers into our own personal pantry. While our inside cabin afforded us no views whatsoever, it did promote restful sleep by shielding us from the never-ending summer sunrays above the Arctic Circle. When we fell into an exhausted slumber at 9:30 p.m., the skies were as bright as they were six hours earlier.

Over the course of the next three days, we made our way south from the Arctic Circle to the southwestern port city of Bergen. In the process, we unhurriedly passed by green mountainscapes dotted with neat yellow, white and red cottages perched above craggly shorelines. Our days invariably consisted of staking an early claim to a windowside table in the ship’s observation lounge where we would read, journal and blog prolifically (at one point, even catching up to real-time with our posts). Kaberi kept her camera at her side and, when the scenery warranted, would sprint outside to snap away in the face of a consistent gust.

Highlights of the journey included a marker designating the Arctic Circle crossing point and Torghatten, a striking mountain with a 480-foot long doughnut hole in its center. For the first thirty hours of the trip, overcast skies muted the natural beauty of the landscape. When we docked at the small coastal town of Rovik, however, a full sweeping rainbow leaped out of the mist. The weather continued to improve as we made our way further south toward the fjord region. By the time we reached Bergen, the bright sunshine and mild breeze had lured us outdoors to absorb the sights from the ship’s forward lounge and attached outdoor deck. We proceeded to spend most of our time tracking the sun’s progress until it began to play hide-and-seek behind the mountains during its 11:30 p.m. descent.

Disembarking at Bergen, Norway’s second-largest city, we made our way into town to locate a bookstore selling the final Harry Potter book, which had been officially released earlier that day. After securing our $36 copy, we walked to the undistinctive fish market and then around the cobblestoned city center until it was time to reboard the ship for our two-night voyage to Trondheim, Norway’s third-largest city. For this journey, we had fortunately secured an exterior cabin for the slightly-different northward route through the fjords. The next day, at noon, we arrived at the World Heritage-designated Geiranger and Storfjorden fjords. We alternated between imbibing the magnificent fjord views and reading the Deathly Hallows furiously; by the time we had docked the next morning, we each had managed to finish the book.

During our voyage, we enjoyed the daily ritual of stopping in different ports of call as a way of breaking up the monotony of the journey. We would take in the atmosphere of a different town while fervently searching for a café serving hot coffee or the nearest grocery store. Our favorite stop was at Molde, just north of the fjords, where an annual jazz festival coincided with our visit. We enjoyed warm, freshly-grilled street food while reveling in the ambient outdoor music. We also relished our last day, which was spent in Trondheim, an atmospheric and picturesque town where we wandered under sunny skies and amidst ubiquitous St. Olaf monuments.

While we certainly could not complain about the relaxing pace of five days aboard the Hurtigruten, the atmosphere on board was a significant departure from our time on the Yangtze River in China. We sorely missed the jovial and funloving camaraderie of that voyage which stood in stark contrast to the relative absence of warmth from the unsmiling European tourists onboard with us. Nevertheless, Norway’s distinctive coastal beauty was worth seeing. After returning to Oslo, we looked forward to our onward journey to Prague, where we hoped to once again bask in the warmth of friends and abundant sunshine.

British Invasion

After an exhaustive search for direct flights to Oslo from Sofia or the closest proximate airports of Belgrade, Serbia, Bucharest, Romania or Thessalonki, Greece yielded no viable options, we chose to raid Kaberi’s frequent flier balance and take a British Airways flight connecting through London. Opting for an overnight stopover at Heathrow, we gained the added benefit of spending an evening with Kaberi’s cousin Reshmi and her husband Pratip. After touching down at Heathrow, we were forced to endure the human parking lot known as U.K. immigration and the condescension of a drunk-with-power British immigration officer (a wanker of the highest order) who demanded written proof of onward passage from the U.K. (the first time this was required anywhere during our travels) apparently because there is an epidemic of American citizens illegally setting up residence in England in a desperate quest to have their buying power cut in half. After muttering under our breath about the infernal and pompous imperialists, we gratefully met Reshmi and Pratip in the arrivals hall. Over cups of tea, and then glasses of scotch, we spent a cozy afternoon together, exchanging stories about life in England and from our travels. Reshmi’s and Pratip’s smart apartment was soon transformed into a Bengali communications hub. With the phone seemingly ringing continuously, we fielded calls in sequence from Reshmi’s parents (the beloved Mejos) from Delhi, Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Amit (who we spent two days with us in Italy a few weeks back) from New York, Kaberi’s parents from Chicago and Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Soma from California. Despite our guilt over monopolizing the phone, we had to admit that it felt fabulous to be surrounded by family near and far. As the evening unfolded, we partook in a home-cooked Bengali meal and then indulged in wonderfully-accessible English language television programming. With the day having flown by, we promised to try and return before the end of our globetrotting journey before turning in for the night. Early the next morning, Reshmi and Pratip graciously drove us back to Heathrow. After being dropped off at Terminal 1 (typically the origin of British Airways’ inter-European flights), we ruefully learned that our Oslo flight departed from the distant Terminal 4 (typically the province of long-haul flights). Racing outside to catch Reshmi and Pratip in the nick of time, we finagled a ride to the outlying terminal some several miles away. After a second round of good-byes, we bid Reshmi and Pratip farewell, leaving them to likely regret extending an invitation to us to wreak havoc on their lives for yet another weekend.

Plush Leather Sofia

From the hustle and bustle of Rome, a hot pink plane operated by WizzAir (a Hungarian based discount carrier) brought us to the relative tranquility of Sofia, in southwestern Bulgaria. While we were thrilled to have escaped the tourist hordes descending upon central Italy in mid-July, we didn’t quite know what to expect from Bulgaria, a country whose geographic and historical contours had largely eluded our consciousness. After deplaning and making our way to a grim terminal with stern black and white signs brandishing a Russian-looking script, our expectations began to be colored with visions of a spartan, post-communist land of stolid suffering and hard drinking.

Having had to check luggage in Rome (the invariable result of flying a budget airline) our mutual apprehension mounted as the crowd of waiting passengers from our plane thinned to a half dozen or so with nary a sign of Kaberi’s conspicuous red and black rolling backpack. Only when her mobile repository of newly-purchased clothing and battle-tested toiletries emerged as the very last piece off the conveyor belt did we both finally exhale.

Exiting baggage claim for a modest arrivals hall, our hopes of a grand reunion were dashed upon discovering that Vik’s Stanford friend Victor was nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes later, after Vik had conferred with a terse airport desk clerk and then brazenly commandeered the use of a mild-mannered stranger’s cellphone for our own purposes, Victor appeared as if straight out of a photo shoot bearing wavy-length hair and a khaki linen suit. To our chagrin, Victor had been waiting for us at Sofia’s modern and sophisticated new terminal a few kilometers away, oblivious to the meager location of WizzAir’s Bulgarian digs. After dispensing European kisses for Kaberi and a manly hug for Vik, Victor loaded our bags into a sporty red Alfa Romero sedan and sped off like a man in search of the nearest facilities.

After a twenty-minute straight shot past a Kodak factory, an AIG branch office and several cellphone shops, we found ourselves smack dab in the center of historic Sofia. Making our way around the striking King’s Palace (now the seat of the Bulgarian parliament) and the largest orthodox church in the country, we quickly arrived at Victor’s prime location apartment on the top floor of a Communist era building. Once the preferred haunt of Bulgaria’s communist intellectual class, the building boasted busts of artists and writers on its walls (depicting several famous former residents) as well as the requisite busy-body neighbor on hand to chide us for loading more than two people on to the elevator.

Our appreciation for the apartment’s trendy location only grew with time. We soon proceeded to take a quick tour of the neighborhood, stopping to admire a photographic exhibit in an adjacent park brimming with Japanese tourists. After enjoying a jolt of caffeine at a Starbucks look-alike within a stone’s throw of our starting point, we commenced an uptempo night on the town with Victor and his girlfriend Lily. We began with dinner at the nearby VinoBar, a chic restaurant opened by the wife of the Swiss ambassador, where the different dishes we shared were complemented by Victor’s selection of superb, homegrown Bulgarian wines.

Our post-dinner exploits involved an ample dose of bar-hopping, beginning with drinks at the aptly-named neighborhood nightspot, By The Way, continuing with shots at a typically-European techno dance club (where Vik’s worn cargo pants actually represented fashionable attire) and culminating with a drink at an outdoor beer garden called Toba&co. By the time we finally called it a night, it was just past three in the morning. By our undiscriminating standards, Sofia’s nightlife appeared to compare favorably with virtually any other major city we had visited, save for New York or London.

The following day proved to be a bit more low-key after we slept in until noon. Our afternoon began with lunch at the hip brunch spot Moto where Vik’s inclination to stay indoors to listen to buoyant lounge music was trumped by the group’s desire to sit outdoors to bask in sunshine. Afterward, we took a winding, scenic drive through the Balkan Mountains to the quaint Bulgarian village of Kopripischtitsa (try saying that five times fast). Rolling brown hillsides and dense green forests eventually receded to reveal a gathering of traditional wooden cottages arranged around a meandering brook and narrow lanes hewn from assorted local stones.

The four of us took the opportunity to wander through an 1850’s home-turned-museum before patronizing a local restaurant to sample traditional Bulgarian dishes like a Shopska salad and cucumber yoghurt soup. While we relished the cool, rural air, we made a point of getting back on the road by 6:00 p.m. in order to ensure that we wouldn’t miss the 7:30 p.m. English language showing of the newly-released movie Harry Potter back in Sofia. Our downtempo day then concluded with a late dinner at Egur, Egur, a local Armenian restaurant.

After a second consecutive late wakeup (Kaberi included!), we enjoyed a late Sunday brunch at a prominent Sofia Irish bar. Following brunch, we visited in turn the Museum of Foreign Art (for a surreal viewing of several Burmese and Indian pieces), the large Cathedral (where Victor, in a prior life as a tour guide, teased visitors with the claim that the 120-ton chandelier had only fallen twice) and an antique flea market where items on offer ranged from old cameras and fake watches to Nazi and communist memorabilia. After Victor negotiated capably on our behalf, we returned home with what we thought was an early-model Leica camera for Kaberi’s antique camera collection (Vik originally had designs on initiating a lucrative eBay transaction). Only upon perusing the Internet later that afternoon did we learn that we had likely purchased a well-executed Russian fake.

Our last night in town proved to be a lovely conclusion to our stay. Victor prepared a home-cooked traditional Bulgarian dinner over which we animatedly chatted until midnight. Looking back on our visit to Bulgaria, it was clear that our time on the ground here with our hip local host had largely overturned our pre-conceived notions of contemporary life in a post-Communist country.