Day Two: Alesund

[notyourmonkey]

Alesund, or A Lesson In Ignoring One’s Plans For The Good: How Freezing Rain Can Be The Best Thing That’s Happened To You All Day


Ah, Alesund, the three-hour jaunt of the first day. Home of Art Nouveau madness, a church, and a large rock in the middle of town masquerading as a mountain. I did my slipshod research, and I had Plans. I was going to a) find the yarn store right off the ship, poke around a bit, then b) head to the old section of town and photograph the hell out of all the Nouveautasticness. I would either then c) find a nice place in town for a bite to eat or 3) return to the ship to sneak in before they closed the dining room. Other possibilities were i) climb the mountain and ii) do a self-guided walk from the tourist office.

Two things for which I did not account: 1) it’s Sunday and 2) Norwegian weather.

It’s been gloomy/cloudy (without being depressing, I find - there’s something magical about watching the mountains disappear into the clouds, not knowing if it’s snow or fog you’re staring at) all day, but it began to drizzle as I left the ship. No problem! I left the giant waterproof parka at home, but I’m in my wool coat, which is water resistant! I have my scarf! It’s just like hiking through Culloden, except this time I don’t have a sinus infection, so it’s awesomer!

(Hey, I never said I was bright.)

La la la wander through town. La la la the only people on the streets are fellow Hurtigruteners. I’m not sure if Norwegians happen to be particularly observant or if Sunday is just a stay-at-home day, but nothing was open (except McDonalds) and no one was out and about.

No yarn shop, no tourist office, no historical tours.

Okay, then. They can’t close the mountain. Onwards! Upwards! 418 steps!

Oh. My. God. While I am not entirely unfit, I really can’t tell you the last time I climbed that many stairs, often with a 12 to 16 inch rise. You know, after hiking a fair bit just to get to the “base.” Did I mention that these stairs were crumbling? That in several places the only thing between you and a sheer drop-off was a “handrail,” by which I mean small metal tubing semi-regularly affixed to posts? That while some stairs were quasi-modern and made of a mix of concrete and small pebbles for traction, others were just giant slabs of ancient stone that is pronounced in the local tongue as “holy shit that’s slippery”? And it was raining?

At least until the last (and, naturally, steepest) fifty meters when it started sleeting. And when you’re up that high, surrounded by the sea on all sides, the wind is going at a pretty good clip.

It’s a good thing that all the small children were able to run right past me, because otherwise they would have been exposed to my gasped, fervent, frequent inappropriate language. I have not sworn that much, that fervently in quite a while. But by god I had started the climb, I was gonna finish it.

I did. I took pictures. It stopped raining when I got to the top, but it was still grey and misty, so I don’t know how well they turned out. Who cares - I am making everyone look at these. They are a moment of triumph.

It was all worth it, though, simply because I made new friends in the depths of my oxygen deprivation and terror. A couple in their, hm, mid fifties? sixties? (grey hair and weathered, but again my parents’ youthfulness really messes with my ability to judge ages) trotted right on past me (which was less embarrassing than the eighty year olds zooming right on by), but they paused at a particularly scenic juncture, and I heard them chatting to someone else in English.

When I caught up with them, they motioned me to pass, but I waved them on, not wanting to hold them back/feel pressured to keep up, and I said, half-laughingly, half-seriously, “Maybe this wasn’t the best choice of activity for someone afraid of heights.”

Yeah, that was pretty much it. Alice and William, a pair of cousins from Windsor and Yorkshire respectively, promptly adopted me. They outpaced me on the way up, caught up with me on the way down (I took pictures and got the hell out of there, as I was dreading the steep, slick stairs over impressive dropoffs), and we chatted the whole way down.

Alice’s sister lives in Vermont and is trying to convince them to go to Yellowstone this summer, and William just saw a documentary on a guy who shovels snow at the lodges there. I told them about Ennis and flyfishing and exactly how far Jackson Hole, Wyoming is from Boston. We talked Obama and vegetarianism and how Alice’s daughter works on an organic farm and William’s motorcycle and how everyone slept last night and how lovely the ship is.

We window-shopped and got lost trying to find the old section of town, and when it started raining again, we stopped in a pizza place called Dolly Dimples (no I am not making this up - Dolly Dimples) for coffee. They snuck me an almond cookie or two from their bag, but the friendship was really cemented on teh walk back from Ms. Dimples to the ship, when it really opened up on us, weather-wise.

Their cabins are on deck five, and they’re at the table across from mine at dinner (I’m at a four-top - this could be interesting), and they swore I was going to have trouble getting rid of them. I couldn’t be more pleased. They’re exactly the sort of interesting, spirited people I’d secretly hoped to encounter.

Now I’m back in my cabin for a brief moment to dry off and de-frost my hair (winter in Norway! awesome!), but soon I’m off to have another cup of tea (William informs me that I must drink ten cups during non-mealtimes in order to make my money back) and maybe buy something from the cafeteria. Six thirty (and the fish in mustard sauce) is a long way off.

(One note of dubiousness: Alice had the herring in mustard and cream for breakfast and quite enjoyed it. I feel this may cast aspersions on her character.)