BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM… I was walking down Bryggen, the historic street running along the quay (that’s probably the first time I’ve ever actually used that word), and suddenly the air vibrated with cannon shots. And they were LOUD. I looked at my watch: 12 o’clock noon. I tried to think of what possible reason there’d be for such a loud disturbance on an otherwise perfectly beautiful summer day in Norway. I remember my mom telling me that there was a similar thing in her home town when she was a kid in North Dakota, and they always knew to run home at the sound of the six o’clock bell. So maybe it’s something the immigrating Norwegians took with them to the new world. Hmm.
My face glued to the double-plated Plexiglas flying into Bergen, I took in the landscape that was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I’d heard Norway was known for its fjords, “fingers” of water cutting deep into the land, created when glacial valleys were flooded by the sea, but now I could see for myself why this was true. Large rock formations rose sharply out of the sea, making these picturesque little islands with varying shades of green vegetation growing in their centers, stunningly contrasting with the grey rock. It was spectacular.
I strolled along the old world streets, lined with little painted wood houses and wondered what it would be like to live in one of them, stooping my head to enter the low doorway with my basket of goods from the market after a long day at work. It was so strange to be in a place where I could truly pass for a local. I mean, these people look exactly like the ones you’d see walking down the street in North Dakota or northern Minnesota, and you’re truly fooled until they open their mouths and start speaking Norwegian. It really is true that the majority of the Midwest was settled by Scandanavians. Go figure.
One evening, I took the funicular, this cable car type thing that goes straight up one of the seven mountains that surrounds Bergen, for a panoramic view of the city and the fjords. Because Norway is so far north, the Golden Hour, the time of day right before the sun sets when the sun splashes the most beautiful golden light over everything, lasts for hours and hours as the sun skims along the horizon before finally dipping below it for a few hours. Even at midnight, there was still color in the sky. This is just one of the things that makes this place so special.
I took a tour through the ancient Rosenkranz tower, a fortress and former home to royalty, and the guide, dressed as a page, was telling fascinating stories about child kings and queens in Norway. Someone asked him about the cannon fired earlier that day, and I got my answer to the mini-mystery: it was some member of the royal family’s birthday.
It’s just so crazy to me to be walking in places where so much history has happened, where kings and queens dined, and where so many stories from long ago linger in the air in the dark back streets of Bryggen.
I’m in a place where they fire cannons on royalty’s birthdays, the sun reluctantly sets, a convenience store latte costs four dollars, and people talk like Sven and Ole. Imagine.