DAY 2&3 -- OSLO

OSLO 1 -- DAY 2 & 3

Today we did not get up until 8:30 – I don’t know why. Breakfast was a typical European affair with all sorts of tasty things that are bad for you.  But it was quick, and we were off to the Olympic Ski Jump.

First, we got a 24-hour travel pass -- $16 each for seniors.  Finding the correct train was an adventure, and then getting on it going the right direction only required one correction.  However, for the rest of the day, you’d think we were native Norweegers.  Speaking of native Norweegers – there are a lot of blond young ladies (exuding an “I-can-take-care-of-myself” attitude).  The percentage of blond young ladies in the population is quite noticeably higher than blond young gentlemen.  It’s a quandary.

So, we did get to the Olympic Jump train stop without drama, and soon found the direction to go.  That way!

Getting there was a climb, a sweaty climb for a couple of somewhat out-of-shape geriatrics.  They had a nice museum of Norwegian Olympic Glory Past. Well actually, Marti Bjørgen won the most Winter Olympic medals ever (14) getting her last just this year. (FYI, she just beat out another Norwegian, Ole Bjoerndalen , by 1, and another Norwegian, Bjorn Daehlie, by 2).  But the attraction was the jump, from the top of which, the view was great.

I found a church with interesting architecture,

and some houses that were not shoddy, but definitely soddy.

This was the view out the back window of the diagonal elevator that brought us elite athletic competitors to the top of the jump.

There are two ways to get down. The more timid like myself de-elevatored and walked, but several hearty souls took the zippy way down. 

Francie could not be talked out of it.  No matter what argument I gave her, it was always, “Doesn’t matter.  I’m old.  I’m do’in it.”  I did convince her to wait until I got to the bottom in order to properly document this final brave expression of raging feminism.

The above was at my maximum zoom, but due to excellent resolution, I could blow up and crop the image for the money shot, proving Francie’s cojones ownership.

We then went to the Norwegian Resistance Museum.  Francie just read The Saboteur, about the Norwegian Resistance during WWII.  Francie considered this a must see, and since I didn’t want to mess with a raging zip-liner, I acquiesced.  It was pretty neat (for a museum), but not neat enough to take a picture of.

Next it was on the trolley to and off to Vigeland Park, a sculpture garden dedicated to the lifetime work of Gustav Vigeland's.  It contained more than 200 naked people sculptures in bronze, granite and wrought iron.

I could not get Francie to look up and point.  She just does not take artistic direction.

This one is called, “When Dad Baby Sits”

There were a million statues

Well maybe 200 statues, but a million (naked) people represented.

Serving the Punch Bowl, his most famous works in granite is a fountain, currently in it’s “off” state.

On our way out, I think I identified one of the most popular of Vigeland’s pieces.  It’s called, Mom They Keep Touching My Hand.  You can tell it’s true due to the shininess of his, you know, hand.  What a country.

The trolley ride home had zero drama.  Francie was pleased because, despite the late start, we saw everything planned – and she collected 14,400 steps.

Back at the ranch we cleaned up, Francie took her leisure, and I worked on this thing.

For dinner we found a classy bar/restaurant in the train station.  Well, I say the train station, but out side of the track area, it is a sprawling warren of shops restaurants and services all under one roof – well probably several different roofs.  So, “found” is the proper word here.  I ordered from the bar, paid and gave them our table number – no movesys.  I had Spare Ribs and a draft local beer.  Francie had bake Salmon and a “Glass of Your Cheapest White, Miss” wine.  The meal came very quickly and was pretty far above average.  It cost $100, which I just mention to point out the things are pricey here.  Mr. Google mentioned that the average house price is about $310K.  This seems pretty steep for a country the has towns ranging in size from Boston, MA to Punxsutawney, PA to Funkley, MI.

Tomorrow we start the "Nutshell".  "Norway in a Nutshell" is multimedia travel adventure across the country.  There are very many flavors of the experience, ours fortunately starts in Oslo.  We hop on the Bergen Railway at 8:30 headed for Myrdal, where we catch a bus to Flam.  In Flam, we get on a boat and head out of Nærøyfjord and back into Aurlandsfjord – both of which, if you were not reading too closely, are fiord or fjord if you are of the Norweeger persuasion.  In Gudvangen, we get on a bus to Voss where we again pick up the Bergen Railway to, well, Bergen.

DAY 1 - OFF WE GO

DAY 1 - OFF WE GO

We headed over to our son’s place in Tampa at 3pm.  His mother-in-law, kindly drove us to the airport.  We got to t

he airport at about 4pm – in plenty of time for a 7pm flight.  We don’t like to rush.  There were 6 people ahead of us at the Iceland Air counter, but then there was the Homeland Security pat down.  There were four people ahead of us in that line.  This was getting very tiresome.  I did not have to take off my shoes because my beard was so white.  However, my child bride did.  We got our last taste or good old Amurcan food at gate E74.

There were a bevy of blond cabin attendants (why else do you fly Iceland Air).  I had the window; Francie had the aisle, and thankfully the middle seat was vacant.  The 6-hour flight to Reykjavik, Iceland was not bad.  It was enough time for me to figure out how to set my digital watch and get some sleep.

You know how, sometimes, as the plane is gliding in for a landing, and you can hardly feel the wheels touch, and you think… damn.  Well that’s not how Iceland Air does it. They get to about 10 feet – sorry 3 meters – off the ground and say. “We’re good, drop it Otto.”  I thought we blew a tire. Departing the plane, we walked down many stairs to a dark, windy rain and a standing room only bus and were whisked away to the terminal.

So, it’s 6am.  We’re in Keflavik, Reykjavik’s airport with an hour and a half to kill.  Let’s have some breakfast.  Francie guarded the luggage against marauding Vikings.  I went off in search of bagels and English Breakfast tea. I did get tea and coffee.  I found a (chocolate) croissant, and I got a hamburger. I guess it was a Breakfast Hamburger – because it was breakfast time.

I found Francie with my culinary offerings and said, “I just saw two people with four beers in front of them – at 6:15 in the morning!”  She said, “Look around.”  Almost everybody had a beer in front of them.  As Yakov Smirnoff would say – “What a country!”

Now we, about 150 of us, queued up at a door labeled Gate A2.  After 20 minutes, the door opened and we filed through to wait on the stairs for another 10-15 minutes until our bus arrived.  This time it was even colder and windier. We drove out to the plane and waited a couple minutes.  Oops, wrong plane.  Drive, drive, drive, there she is.  It is raining harder; the wind has picked up a lot to maybe 25 miles per hour and was really pushing on us. It was cold.  The stairs up to the plane were not covered, and there was a line.  We were quite wet when we reached our seats.

There was probably a bevy of blond cabin attendants on this flight too, but I didn’t notice.  The 2-hour flight to Oslo was also not bad.  This time the pilot must have thought that 3 meters was unnecessarily close; 5 would be just fine.

During what seemed an interminable wait at the luggage carousel, I got talking with an American, now living in Sweden. He said the current weather was very nice – 50℉ and no rain – a funny way to put it.  He said the price of milk and gasoline was the same here – 12 $/gallon.  Norweegers don’t drive much.

We finally found the train station (located in the air terminal) with only needing to pester a couple Osolians.  The train was packed.  We did get a seat, but between suitcase and standers, floor space was at a premium. We got off at the correct station – Yea.

The hotel was supposed to be an easy walk from the train station.  Yeah, right.  Well, actually, it was in the train station.  The guide book could have said that.

The hotel “receptionist” was a tall blonde young lady apparently on her way to a spinning class.  She stood behind an open computer desk with the candy and drinks she was selling.  She checked us in.  Just her for a four floor hotel.  Did we want our room cleaned tomorrow? If not they make a donation the LDCF (Lutefisk Deprived Children’s Fund).  We declined cleaning; it would be more homey.  We went up the mini-elevator to the floor that services the 300 and 400 (?) rooms.  We walked down a looong corridor that was a little uneven or I was more exhausted that I thought.  We approached a flurry of signs that explained it the remaining 300’s were down and 400’S were up.  We selected the elevator and rode it down 4 feet.  Francie’s comment was, “How do we get back?”

The room was small, quite small.

It had strange murals above the bed…

And in the bathroom.  If that was Baby Jesus, as suspected, he had blue toe nails.

We dropped off our stuff, took care of business and headed out to pick up our “Nutshell” tickets.  With mission accomplished, we set off for the Opera House, which Francie really wanted to see.

The outside is sort of a sloping block surface that you can walk up.  A turn of the corner and you are on some portion of it’s roof.  Gaps in the block channel water so that you don’t find yourself ankle deep in a raging torrent if you walk it in a light rain.

The inside of the Opera House was quite cool.

This is one of several "window" built into the floor of a walk way and ceiling of a bar.  You can see the bald head of a guy that came early to get the best seat.
What A Country!