Paris

I was awake long before the train pulled into the Gare du Nord station, but it wasn't until I walked onto the platform when I fell in love with Paris. There is something in the air that defines it as a different world from what I had known (it could be the pervasive stench of sewar and stale urine though). I was indecive at first, I did not have a place to stay nor did I really know where I was going. The line at the tourist information booth was long and showed no signs of moving, I just couldn't be bothered to wait for it. At first I thought I would use the small map in my Lonely Planet booked, but when I walked outside I realized that would be a disaster. Searching the kiosk like stores in the Gare, I finally found one that sold maps. The guy at the counter had picked me out for a foreigner long before I had said anything and spoke to me in English. When asked, he said I didn't walk or act like a Parisian, I don't think it was meant as an insult. He did guess I was northern European though, but I think that is a fair assessment.

My plane was to walk to the nearest hostel to the Gare, according to my book. I could have taken the subway, but I wanted to strectch my legs and walk a bit. A city is always much bigger when you are walking it for the first time and it was taking me a long time to get anywhere (for the record, only one wrong turn). Long before I reached the hostel I was looking for, I don't even remember which one, I was stopped by a young Italian man as I pass through the Place de la Republique. I usually am loath to bother speaking to people handing out flyers, but acting on instinct alone, I stopped for him. He had picked me out of the crowd because of my pack and asked if I was looking for a hostel.

I came to Paris, at the hight of tourist season, not having booked a hostel, most people would say that is a foolish and risky thing to do, but I knew I would find a place.

I let him direct me to the subway, he explained where I had to get off and how to find the hostel from the stop. Indeed, his instructions were good and I was able to get there easily.

The Hostel. Pushing open the ancient wooden doors, I found myself in a dark hallway with no apparent lighting. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I was able to read the sign directing me to the second level for the hostel. Holding the railing to support myself under my heavy bag as I climbed the centuries old granite stairs with the centres long worn into deep dips, I came to another ancient double wooden door. It wasn't locked and I pushed through to find an old African man talking to another person. The door had led me into the middle of what appeared to be an apartment turned dorm. Leading me away, the African man took my details and money in the the small and cluttered kitchen that also double as the office.

The grand tour followed and I followed him into the adgencent room off the kitchen, what might be described as the dinning area, if I were generous. It was a room about 4x4 metres, give or take, that had a low and shallow counter on three of its sides. There were collapsable chairs stacked neatly in one corner. On one of the shelves was a postcard from Vancouver thanking the Hostel for its "Wonderful Breakfast", there was no sender's address.

From the kitchen, into the dining room, then down to the stairs to the right was the washing area, split into two halves after the stairs. On one side, there were two stalls with toilets, fortunately the walls went to the floor and there was a cieling affording some privacy. Directly across the stalls were the two shower stall (at a cost of 1€) bracketing the two sinks with mirrors. On the other side of the hall were another row of sinks and mirrors.

Passing through the hallway, there was a dorm on the left, across from the entrance, was the mixed dorm for what appeared to be couples. Bunk beds had been pushed together to create double beds. Through that room was the very small room where eight Africans lived. Next to that was the girls room and immediately to the left of the main door was the boys room. An oddly angled room with ten bunks. I knew then it was going to be a smelly, noisy stay. I settled into my room (I threw my bag on a free bunk) and decided to enjoy Paris a little.

I went to the first obvious place, the Eiffel tower. Two things I learned about the Eiffel tower; first, it was much further away than I expected and secondly, it was much bigger than I expected. The Tower is surronded by a pretty park which is filled with tourists taking the same photo. I considered going up to the top to enjoy the experienceI didn't feel like waiting in line for an hour or paying the 18€ to go up alone, so I vowed to return when I could go up with some one special...

An update...

All right, I have received sufficient harassment to update this blog, so now I am taking a few minutes to do it.

Obviously, I wasn't stabbed to death or robbed blind after sleeping outside. In fact, it was a pleasant experience (the not getting stabbed or robbed part), chilly, but pleasant. When I woke, as dawn began to light the day, I crawled out from my sleeping bag and shook off the morning dampness, then had a light breakfast of bread and meat. Perhaps I was less of a pilgrim as much as a vagabond. After hiking back to the train station and waiting around for the counter to open so I could book a ticket, I caught the next train west. It was a bit of a disastrous day, but by the end of it, I managed to catch the train to Hamburg, Germany.

I spent one night in Hamburg, staying in a very rock and roll hotel/bar. There were courtesy earplugs on my pillow. It was far more expensive, but it was worth every penny to have a shower and put on clean clothes. I never did need to earplugs, the lure of the bar outside my room was far to great to miss out, even if I was ready to fall over with fatigue. I even got a neat little tour of the better views by a local.
Since the bar didn't close until four in the morning, there was a very late check out time, which I took advantage of... Having taken advantage of the late closing time.

The next day, or the same day I suppose, I took advantage of the shower again before leaving. I had about a lot of hours to kill before my train, so I took a circuitous route to see some of the city. I watched the sun set and had a very intense conversation with a very crazy rastaman with dreads to his knees. He had a very fascinating sun salute which was part Tai Chi, part military salute, part yoga, and a lot weird. He was one of the coolest people I had spoken to in a long time. By morning though, I was in Paris with no place to stay, but this time I was determined to find a hostel.

I never did find a hostel, it found me. More on that later. In this story, I only got lost once and took one train to the wrong part of the country once.

Oslo to Hamburg - Part 1, July 25

I opened my eyes before the sun made its daily debut, but the grey-blue sky told me it would not be long before I would see it.

I had spent the night sleepless and I was tired, but I had eaten and I had a ride out of town, things were looking okay. As the dawn broke, the sky cleared, it was going to be a bright and sunshiny day. I knew I had to get a window seat, the sun would come through the window and keep me warm, nothing puts me to sleep like the warm sun. I didn't see much of the country as we cruised through Sweden, I was dozing comfortably with my sweater cushioning my head and next against the window. My only distraction was the Spanish girl beside me didn't speak any English, but she was nice to look at between naps. I just hope I didn't snore too loudly. Managing to wake up and some how communicate with the Swedish only speaking driver, I switched buses halfway to Copenhagen. That was the only time I moved more than a few inches the whole trip.

When I arrived in Copenhagen, dropped off a few streets from the central station, I tried to think of a plan. I had a vague sense to go Spain, not for any particular reason other than it was warmer there than in Scandinavia where it rarely broke 20 degrees. Heavy with sleep inertia and rather lost with any real idea of what I wanted to do, I started with the internet. Yes, this was the worst place to spend my time, but at least I could wast my time in my own language. When you are tired, trying to work in a very foreign language is quite frustrating, especially when you have to deal with surly ticket agents. without a place to stay, and without any idea what I wanted to do. I had a vague notion I wanted to get to Barcelona, but the price of a ticket from Copenhagen was, well, just silly. Tired, groggy, and grouchy, I wandered the station, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. If I at least knew that, I would have a chance to build a plan.

Thinking maybe it would be best to stay the night, I started calling hostel. They were all full. I could have landed at my family's door step, but I did not feel at all right about that. I emailed my friend who live an hour away, maybe I could crash there if she got back to me in time. It was a silly idea, but I wasn't being smart.

Buying a ticket to Slagelse, I got on a train. I thought maybe I would sleep by the beach over night, that would be kinda cool. Traveling through the country side, I realized I had no idea how to get to the beach and furthermore, the ticket I bought brought me to a city a at least 20km from the coast.

I started chatting with the girl next to me. I hadn't spoken to any one in days and was glad for the company. In the back of my mind, I had hope she would ask were I was staying and invite a weary traveler to stay the night. I say that in the most platonic way as well, all I wanted was a shower and a bed. Unfortunately, that would not be the case. She didn't ask nor did I offer the information, I wasn't going to fish for help.

During the conversation though, I accidentally on purpose missed my stop and rode right through to Odense. I knew the one hostel in town would have its reception closed, but I tried anyway with the obvious result. It was a weird sensation. I had no where to stay, no direction, and I just didn't care. I would have to sleep outside, but it didn't matter. I was on an adventure and there was bound to be some bumps in the road. Obviously the bumps came from my very poor planning, but it seems as though everything was too easy if I didn't make it hard for myself. I suppose that sounds idiotic, why would I want to make it harder for myself?

Going through life is usually fair simple affair. Eat, sleep, work, play. Sometimes unforeseen things disrupt our routines, but we do our best to plan for them so they cause minimal chaos. I could have easily planned ahead and booked a cheap ticket from Oslo to anywhere, but where is the challenge. Granted, for me the challenge is planning ahead. None the less, I was looking for that feeling of pilgrimage, even if it was forced.

Walking down the streets in the fading light, I was glad for the chance for something new. I didn't know where I would sleep, but I knew I would find a good place that would keep me dry and safe. My bag wearing me down, I eventually turned at an intersection with the intent of getting to the harbour two kilometres away, but I never made it that far.

I came across a set of abandoned railroad tracks and following them into the bush, I discovered what looked like a hobbit's shanty town. Little structures built of old wooden shipping pallets, turned grey from the elements, and odd lumber lined the pathway. Some of the bizarre structures appeared to have two stories. Among this strange little village was a large lean-two. Underneath was a large log perfect for sitting on while I ate some supper and the ground where I slept was mostly soft, without many sticks or stones.

I felt lucky to have found a place like this and I set up camp for the night. Just like a real pilgrim.

Sleepless in Oslo, July 24

I thought leaving Oslo would be a simple affair. I would catch the same ferry I had taken to get there and by morning I would be back in Fredrikshavn. It was as simple a plan as I could figure. It took some time, but I was able to decipher the Norwegian website and found the departure time the ship. My bag was packed and I had said most of my good-byes, I was ready to go.

As the day turned into afternoon and the time to sail was drawing nearer, I came across my Australian friend busking in the street and wished him well before returning to the hostel to collect my pack.

It began to rain, an ill omen. Any distance is exaggerated when walking in the rain and carrying a heavy load, so the twenty minute hike felt like forever. When I did reach the port and the ticket counter, I waited for my number to be called. I was looking forward to the trip, I would be able to enjoy the night sky over the ocean and see the stars like I never have before. When my number was called, I sidled up to the counter and asked for one ticket. Sold out. Not a pleasant surprise, I didn't want to have to stay in town another night. I inquired about the next night. Yes, there was room, but at a cost of five times the price I paid to get here. I had to rent a cabin. I walked away stunned and unhappy, I had no idea this would be the case. Perhaps if I had been able to understand more Norwegian or used a little sense, I might have been able known better.

My frustration and anger grew as I walked to the train station. I had mentally checked out of the city and had planned as best I could, but came up short. Again. Mad at myself for not planning better and mad at the ferry company for not writing in English, I thought about how I was going to leave. Plan A was barely thought through, there was no plan B. The train station had internet stations, so I thought I would search for my answer there, as though the internet gods would present me with the answer.

Signing into a terminal, I searched the possibilities and even enlisted Guro's help. She directed me to the cheapest bus service out of town, but no matter what I did, I could not book a ticket with my credit card. There was an obvious solution to my problem, but I was so fixated on finding it through the internet, I was blind to it. It appeared as though I was staying for one more night.

Guro generously invited me to crash at her place if I needed to, but as much as I appreciated the offer, I knew she simply did not have the space to house me. Moreover, I was reasonably certain there would be space at the hostel. I was mad though. Unreasonably frustrated and mad. So I pouted.

I decided I was not going pay for another room if I had to stay the night. As if my act of defiance made a difference to anyone or anything, I decided to spend the night awake wandering the city. With stubborn determination, I dressed warmly, in layers, and locked up my pack for the evening at the station.

One of my favourite spots in Oslo is the church that had been turned into various shops and boutiques. On the outer terrace that wrapped around the back of the building, was a small café. I would spend a few hours there drawing in my new sketch book and writing in my journal. Drinking my first over-priced tea, I thought about some of the things I had read and the people I had met. A common thread I was beginning to recognize in people who had achieved greatness, was a singular, life changing event. Some extraordinary thing that or person who stepped in from nowhere and directed that person to a course of action. I thought about the friend I had met just a few days before, she had a stranger walk up to her and tell her she needed to be across the country in three days. The stranger helped her get the money to make the trip and a friend found her a place to stay. A few days later, she was singing on stage with a band in the bar where she was to meet the person who would give her a place to stay. In the audience was a record exec who put her on the path to signing with a major label. It was an incredible story and wonderfully inspiring. Anything can happen when you least expect it, but where was my moment? I desperately wanted to find that person or event that would make the world clearer to me, that would illuminate my path for me.

Drinking my second cup of over-priced tea, I started to wonder if maybe I would ever have that moment and if I didn't, did that mean I would never achieve the success I was looking for? The best I could do was to sit peacefully and let my inner voice guide me. If I kept looking for these challenges and doing these crazy things, will I find that moment will come where I will find that inspiration? At the very least, I will have some amusing stories.

With a page of my new sketch book filled and the café closing, I moved on. Having nowhere in particular to be or to go, I stopped at a 7/11 to buy another cup of tea. Hopefully the limited caffeine would be enough to get me through the night. At least the night wasn't cold. From there, I went to the pier where the tourists wandered by day. There was an outdoor lounge playing some groovy chill-out music, so I sat nearby for a while and sketched some more. I was starting to regret my brashness, I really wanted a bed. I was tired and bored. There was no turning back though, it was late and the hostels would be closed for check-ins now, I had forced myself into a corner and had to see the night through. When the music ended and the club closed, I left.

I walked far into the night, with no direction or purpose, much like most of my life. Eventually seeing I was going nowhere, I turned back and sought out the spiked guardians for company. I expected them to be far more fearsome at night, but the constant stream of traffic and bright street lamps detracted from the spiritual experience I was hoping for. At three in the morning, they were not at all scary.

I made my way back to the train station, ambling slowly and dodging the dirty prostitutes hissing their offers of sex. By the time I made it to the plaza where the tiger prowled, I still had a few hours to wait.

When the station opened, I returned to the internet and tried to book a ticket on the same website with the same result. Even my mother, who came online and tried to help me, couldn't get her card to work either. I am sure there are worse ways to hurriedly buy tickets, but I am hard pressed to think of one worse than directing a person, who is an ocean away, through a website neither of us can read.

Short on patience, hungry, and over-tired, I gave up on the internet and found a little that little sense that I needed to get out of town. The bus station was near the train station, I knew that, if I could find that, I could buy a ticket out of this city. Within a few hours, I was on a bus to Copenhagen, cruising through Sweden.

My night on the town could have easily been averted. Had I just needed to use my brain instead of the computer, I would have spent the night dozing as miles flew by. Would I have had the adventure of wandering the city by night though...

Scary Demon Pets, July 24

I finally checked out from my hostel. I had the whole day to spend before I could catch the over-night ferry back to Denmark and there was one thing left I wanted to do in Oslo: I wanted to photograph the fierce demons guarding the statue of Rikard Nordraak.

I didn't know who this man or what his importance was, let alone why he deserved the honour of two of the most terrifying creatures I have ever laid eyes on, but photographing these creatures was something I felt compelled to do. It was only much later I discovered who the man was. He was a talented composer who died much too young at the age of 23. Indeed, one of his pieces is now the Norwegian national anthem. I have yet to discover the relationship between him and the statues, however, the statues themselves are the creation of Gustav Vigeland, a famous sculpture and creator of Vigeland park.

There are two of these fanstictally hideous beasts, each standing guard at the base of the staircase to Nordraak's statue. Chained by the wrist with solid iron links, they stand stoically, staring unwaveringly straight ahead. Never moving, as much as I saw, forever standing sentry until they are overcome by the elements and time. Moving between them, I hoped they did not take offense to my presence. I meant no disrespect and did not want to stir the creatures from their vigilance into violence. They looked to be capable of incredible destruction.

Each metallic bone is covered with curved spikes running the length of their limbs. These minions, of whatever hellish place they come, seem to be created for one purpose only; To shred flesh from bone. Even though they were chained by their wrists, the small mobility afforded to them would be enough to take by surprise any unwary prey. I wondered if the chains were hardened enough to hold them should they be awakened and their wrath stirred.

Reflection, July 23

Travelling through hostels provides some many opportunities to meet the most interesting people. This past week has been filled with inspirational and talented people who have inadvertently helped me chose a future for myself.

Every day of this trip has been a blessing. Moments like sharing an evening of music and song together or nights out on the town will forever stay etched in my memory.

In a time of travel and transition, I have found a feeling of familiarity and stability, no matter how brief.

I don't have dreams, I have goals... July 20

If you have been following my sporadic updates, you might remember I wrote about buying two books by Paulo Coelho. I was reading Like the Flowing River when I came to the passage about The Law of Jante. In the words of Coelho, the law can be described thusly;

You aren't worth a thing, nobody is interested in what you think, mediocrity and anonymity are your best bet. If you act this way, you will never have any big problems in life."

(You can read the full article here: Paulo Coelho and about the law here The Law of Jante) At the time, this statement only struck me as interesting, maybe something to think about later.

One of the reasons I came to Oslo was to visit my brother's friend who he has known for many years. His friend, besides living in Oslo, also travels to L.A. and London, among other destinations, to work on her music career, which as of this moment is about to take off after working with some of the industry's biggest names. As usual, I drifted into Oslo without any warning or planning, so I couldn't be surprised when I found out she was in London, recording. I had been in Oslo for almost two weeks before we were able to meet.

I had suggested we go to the famous statue park ( Vigeland Park and Museum) instead of something boring like sitting idly for a coffee, to which she readily agreed. She met me at my hostel after she had finished work for the day and we jumped on the next trolley to the park. I found her very easy to talk to and her charisma allowed our conversation to flow easily.

As we spoke, I learned much of what she was doing and what her goals were. It became remarkably clear I had met some one who knew exactly what she wanted and believed completely she was going to succeed. There was not that doubt that came with hope, but her success was simply a matter of fact. Indeed, as she recounted some of the accomplishments she had, in the past and recently, finished, there could be no doubt she would do what she decided to do. Her first single was to be released within a month or two, both in the UK and in Japan (I have no doubt of her success after listening to a first edit of the single).

She mentioned how she was keeping a low profile within Norway, not making any effort to gain recognition nor promote her music. My slow firing brain made the connection and exclaimed "Jante's Law!" She looked at me strangely and I felt a little defeated, but went on to explain it as I had read it. Eyes growing wide with recognition, she corrected my pronunciation "Yante's Law". Obviously, "J" in Norway is pronounced like our "Y". She went on to explain the Law in her own words and concluded that was exactly why she felt the need to pursue her career outside of Norway.

For the first time, I had met a person who was directly defying that Law believed, not only those in Scandinavia, but by people all over the world. People everywhere cling to that idea, in one fashion or another, that idea that says keep your head down and don't make waves. It was then I saw how my life had been shaped by this rule, never daring to make a spectacle or to believe I can achieve those great dreams I used to have. Many years ago, before the years of adulthood weighed down on me, I believed I would do great things. However, as with all things adult, we are taught to leave the childish dreams with our childhood and rather we should strive to fit the mold of our society. For years I struggled against the pressure of living in that mold, never quite fitting in, but without any idea how to live beyond it.

Before we parted ways, my brother's friend said something that changed everything for me. In a moment, my world was shaken again. I was lamenting about some of the things I had wanted and do want to do, but spoke of them as dreams. Interrupting me, she said, "I don't have dreams, I have goals." There it is. The challenge. I could either continue pining for the things I wish to achieve or I can achieve them.

Later, I began thinking about my dreams. What were the things I had wanted to do and would they ever come true. Like a loud bell, the thought clanged in my head, I have achieved more than one of my dreams. Not the least of which, was leaving my entire world behind to travel and live an adventure. I remember how that dream became a goal:

One evening in the middle of February, after having lost my job and not winning the competition for another I desperately needed and wanted, I sat depressed and frustrated. I had never been so poor in my life, unpaid bills were piled high and I had to ask for money from my parents just to buy groceries until the social assistance cheque arrived. My pride was shattered and knew then I had to change everything about my world. I knew I could not survive in the world as I had been, not with any measure of happiness. While I sat brooding, a thought drifted back into my consciousness, with it came a breeze, blowing the dust off an old idea. I remembered how a year previous I wanted to take some time and live abroad, but never did because I did not have the vacation time and could not save the money to keep my apartment and travel at the same time. I had let the idea gather dust, until it was hidden from my thoughts, but now it shone brightly, refusing to be ignored. My brooding grew into unrequited excitement, yes, I could do this. My dream had become my goal.

Now, I thought about other goals that had been long forgotten. Released from the confines of my own limitations, I set them as goals. I know I will achieve the success I long ago believed I could reach.

I will directly defy the Law of Jante, of Mediocrity. I will rise above my fears and set ambitious goals. I will learn from my mistakes and be blessed by my failures. I will work until I achieve my goals.

I will be great!

How did I end up here? July 21

Being the indecisive creature that I am, I am forever extending my stay at the hostel for another day or two, which in turn shuffles me around into different rooms. Yesterday, I found myself shuffled into my Australian friend's room, but I didn't realize that until this morning when I heard him shuffling around and asking some one else for the time. I believe the girl who answered was the person I nearly ran over in the dark of the middle of the night, coming out of the bathroom after I arrived late from where ever I was. I would tell you where I was, but I don't quite remember that far back and it didn't seem relevant when I recorded it in my journal, so don't worry about it.

As I came out of the heavy sleep inertia that makes less then brilliant in the morning and looked about my new room, a cozy six bed room with a small kitchenette and bathroom, I saw there were five of us bunked together. Besides my Australian friend and me, there were two American girls from the east coast, California I believe. One was a civil engineer and the other was about to go into law school. You might be able to take the girl out of California, but you can never take the California out of the girl...

The fifth bunk mate was an Egyptian man who insisted on making friends with every one, although he spoke about only a little more English than I do Arabic. Captain obvious says, I don't speak any Arabic. I do know a few words in Persian, but that really didn't help much. At all actually. Anyway, he presented me with a beaded necklace as a gift and felt he had to take my picture... A little creepy, but I think he meant well. The others in the room were bitter at me when I showed off my new digs, all they got were some cheesy key chains and similar trinkets. The best was when he wrote two pages of Arabic in my journal, of course I have no idea what it says, but I have chosen to believe it is some fantastic work of literature. Whether or not I ever get it translated remains to be seen.

The dynamic between the four of us (I will exclude the Egyptian man, whose name was Houman... I think. He pretty much did his own thing.) could be best described like this; Me desperately trying to not continue making an ass of myself. Perhaps it was the innate male need to compete with the most charismatic person in the room or it could just be I was a dolt that day, but for whatever reason, I kept saying stupid things. Regardless, we managed to get along well enough to make plans for the evening.

The plan fell together as the four of us were in the room doing our separate things. The girls were getting ready for a night out and spending a significant amount of time doing their hair. They had one thing on their mind and were not shy about it, as was evident when they split their large supply of condoms between their purses. Later, never shy for words, 6-string cowboy described them, in his Melbourne accent, as positively gagging for sex. These girls seemed to have no inhibitions and were looking forward to the club...and making out with each other or any other hot person around.

By the time we were all ready to leave, the boys having thrown on something more or less clean, the girls having spent hours transforming themselves into irresistible sirens, it was already getting late. Although our under-sexed Californians had already eaten, they were amiable to joining us at the tapas restaurant we had discovered the previous night. There would be drinks there and that was the most important thing.

The restaurant, called Tapas, (tapas is a type of Spanish cuisine consisting of small portions of a variety of foods, shared among a table)was a dimly lit place with solid wood furniture and art deco prints on the wall. It was divided into two sections, one section was neatly arrayed tables with chairs and a row of tables against the wall with padded benches. The other side had the bad, a few less tables, the same type of benches in the wall, and a large open space in the wall, leading outside. With warm bodies breathing their hot air into the space, the open window made for a comfortable breeze.

We choose a table in the middle of the bar section, this way we could talk with more random people. Ordering a litre of wine for the four of us, we set into the menu and ordered an array of dishes that we either new was good or wanted to try. As we ate, the girls quickly lost interest in us and were conversing with the table that was at their backs. We were more interested in our food and chatting with the tattooed waitress serving us. I have learned it is always beneficial to make nice with the wait staff, although I have yet to get a phone number for my efforts.

Having learned, from their new friends, of great club not far from where we were, our Americans in Oslo were eager to leave. Especially since there was a lull in the rain that started since we had arrived at the restaurant. They were quite concerned about their hair, after all, they had spent hours getting the curls just right.

The thing about people who travel on their own is, they tend to become fiercely independent and do not particularly respond well to orders. Although I was feeling amiable and perhaps a little ambivalent, I happy to stay or go. On the other hand, my Australian friend was no where near ready to go nor did he want to feel rushed. He dug his heels in and was not about to go anywhere. Thus, I was presented with my options: Leave for the club with the ladies who would most likely ignore me in short order or enjoy more libations in the cozy eatery with the friendly wait staff.

Ordering another half litre of wine for the two of us, we settled into our seats and chatted with the young waitress who had joined us at our table. On her necklace was a flat circle with the word Faith engraved. I asked her for the meaning of her necklace, faith in what? Just faith, is all she replied. I didn't press for further meaning, although I didn't completely understand her meaning. I felt maybe I would learn that on my own terms, when I was ready. Among her various other tattoos, was a portrait of her father and the dates of his life. Why a person should choose to believe a tattoo is a fitting memorial is beyond me, but at least I had the tact to appreciate it for what it was. I am forever fascinated by tattoos, but at the same time, sufficiently frighten of the risks to probably never get one. Besides, I am fickle and my opinions change often, I doubt I would like any piece of work for the rest of my life, even if it was permanently made part of my body.

As our wine dwindled and we contemplated leaving or perhaps, more wine, our favourite waitress returned with a two cold bottles of fine Norwegian ale, well, it was beer anyway. Compelled to stay, since it would be a terrible sin to waste free beer after we had racked up a rather large tab. We enjoyed the ambiance for a while longer, but eventually decided to leave for the club.

After complaining about people who constantly bum cigarettes off people, my companion didn't miss the irony as he did the same from the couple sitting on some steps not far from Tapas. Graciously making conversation as he did so, he was able to get two cigarettes.

Talking loudly, we continued on towards the direction we believed the club was. Our conversation attracted the attention of the couple ahead of us and the man asked where we were from. Never shy, we introduced ourselves with our names and nationalities, and fell into step with them. They were going to the club across the way from our and we were not, in fact, going in the right direction. In what would shape the course of the rest of the evening, we let them guide us to our destination. Once there, they decided to join us instead of going alone to the other club, which I am sure was equally as good.

Quickly moving through the queue, we entered into the seizure inducing, gut crushing, ear drum bashing, hypnotic, hard-house techno-trance blood-rave, strobe lighted, foggy dance hall. The very act of walking took a certain amount of concentration, the combination of music and lights was enough to throw off even a sober person's equilibrium. After getting their drinks from the bar, our friends disappeared into the crush, presumably to dance. Taking a moment to orient ourselves, we found the bar and paid the exorbitant price for Mexican beers (I have no idea why our night had a Spanish theme, Tapas and Coronas. No idea.) and waved to our American girls who were dancing with each other. Either no one in the club was good enough for them or they weren't quite as special as they thought they were. Their hair looked fine, for the record. I wondered, as they grinded with each other, if they would hold true to their promise to make out with each other.

Finding myself alone, my Australian friend having wandered off elsewhere, I decided to explore a little of the club. I came across our new friends who were talking with some other friends and I was introduced to a lovely Norwegian gal and her, thankfully, brother who was visiting from up north. Hoping for a dance partner, I chatted with her for a while until she excused herself for a moment to get a drink from the other side of the bar where they served hard liquor. Watching her go, I was sure she would be back, but the curiosity got the better of my patience and I went to explore the dark side. Winding my way through the hallways and dodging people far too inebriated, I discovered the other section. The music was a little different, not quite the reduce-your-insides-to-mush thumping I had just left, but still pretty good. My potential dance partner was at the bar, but with some guy I had not seen before. Feeling brazen, I asked her if she wanted to come back to the other side and dance. No. Defeated, but not discouraged I returned to the other section to found my crew and let my insides vibrate.

The night wore on and I was thirsty, but the bar was shutting down and I was forced to endure water. Just as well I suppose. Leaning against the bar, doing my best to look GQ with my H2O, I again observed the prize duo. Still alone. Making out with each other. Their irritation plainly obvious as no one particularly cared or bothered to take any interest.

I don't recall what time that actually was, but the music eventually stopped and the sun was not far from rising. Filing out, things got a little muddled. Some how an ex-girlfriend seemed to be able to get us into the party and a new friend joined our group. Thinking an after-party was a good idea, I convinced my very tired friend to come along. Ditching the girls who seemed to have finally found some boys who wanted to talk to them, our little group skulked off in search of this new venue. We made a brief stop at the club across from ours, where we made some inquiries, then moved on. It was not long before I realized we were not actually going to an after party, but to the new girl's flat. Apparently, we couldn't actually get in, something about the ex-girlfriend not entirely pleased about the whole situation. Not entirely sure what to make of the situation or if I believed the whole after-party story, I followed anyway. Slightly taken aback, again, as the night turned into morning.

Stopping one more time before our destination to buy rum and cigarettes, and so one of the lads could pee on a tree, barely concealed from the street by a few scrawny bushes. Then we were at the new girl's flat. A tiny little place with one bed room, a kitchen that turned into the living room if you turned around the wrong way, and a bathroom large enough to barely squeeze into. A few rum and cokes were poured (This is a drink I absolutely detest and make great pains to avoid. Never mind why), and we sat down to do I am not entirely sure. It took very little time for Melbourne to call it a night, he was exhausted and desperately wanted sleep. I understood that and did my best to quash the ribbing that came from the Norwegian couple, it wasn't as nice as it could have been. As he left, I decided to stay. I wasn't quite ready to go and thought maybe there would be some interesting discussions or something.

At the hosts suggestion, we ended up on the terrace on the roof top. The view was pleasant and we talked about nothing for a little while. After a while, we noticed that our friends had disappeared, but stayed a while longer, still chatting about nothing. Finally, admitting she didn't know them that well and wasn't so comfortable with them being alone in her flat, we returned downstairs. Once in her apartment though, we discovered they had left. Oddly, she wasn't so surprised with this as I thought she should have been. One minute they are here after trucking across town, then the next they are gone. However, I was surprised and I really didn't quite know what to make of it. Suddenly it was just me and this girl whose name I wasn't even sure of. I decided the best thing to do would be to politely drink a token amount of my rum and coke (without gagging), then leave.

I hadn't realized how far it was from my hostel, so it was around 5 before I made it back and I was quite glad to crawl into bed. Even if the sun was well up.

Art... July 20

One can never truly recreate an experience. A friendship, the ambiance of a party, or the feel of the city on a certain day. The previous day, during my customary tour of the streets, I saw many things I had wished I could have photographed, but I had left my camera behind. Everywhere I had looked, there was an something that I wanted to capture. The way the crane operator slept with his feet against the window, high off the ground, as he waited to lift the next dumpster bin from the roof. The way the light caught the frame of the hidden door in the wall. The way an African family, brightly dressed in their colourful robes, walked down the street.

This day, I left my hostel with the thoughts of capturing what I had seen before. As I wandered, I realized I could not photograph what had already happened. The moment was gone. So lost in thought, I missed much of what was new and should be photographed. Even as pulled myself into the present, I could not bring myself to photograph the strange beauty I see in every object and space. Perhaps I was too concerned with how my photographs would be perceived by others and that is a terrible thing to think. Admittedly though, seeing every second tourist with a camera taking the same photos over and over again is discouraging. When does one become deserving to be bold enough to proclaim his ideas are "art"?

My aimless wandering took me to an alley where a man was spray painting his thoughts on a wall already covered with an array of strange creatures. Mouths and eyes and ears and arms were all randomly placed around a blob of monster staring out at passers-by. At first, I wanted to engage in conversation as I had with the Carlos, the man from Rio, but thought better of it. He acknowledge my presence with a brief nod and I stood quietly to watch him create another monster to join the ranks of his mates.

Using only spray cans, he brought to life the lines and patterns and colours that would form his newest creature. Thin black lines became the outline of eyes, filled in with white. More black horizontal lines created the pattern of the odd fellow's mouth. Blue paint was brought out again to over-spray the patterns to make them complete and clean. Hair sprouted from the top of its head, looking very much like an unkempt school boy. Before my eyes, the vision of this man appeared from atomized paint into an entity with a personality and history one could easily imagine.

I watched only for a little while, snapping a few photos before quietly wandering off. I don't know if he saw me leave or if he cared. It doesn't really matter I suppose, he wasn't making art for me or for any one else I imagine. He was doing it for his own sake or at least for the sake of his pets.

Carlos, July 18

It was late and the evening light was beginning the wane, the lull in the crowd was only temporary as people went home between shopping and an evening out. Since it was Richie's first day busking in Oslo, I came down to Carl Johans Gata, to watch and encourage my friend. He did not particularly need the encouragement or the audience, but I thought it would be worth my while to see him perform. The promenade was not particularly busy and money was slow to come, but people were stopping briefly to listen and by the end of the night Richie did well enough. .

As usual, my attention wandered and I found myself observing my surroundings, watching the people as they shopped
Up the cobble-stoned street, was a man I had seen every day I had ventured to this area. Standing no more than five feet tall and wearing a yellow Brazil shirt, but barrel chested with thickly muscled arms, he leaned on his crutches. He had clearly been stricken by some disease that had robbed him of any sustained use of his stunted legs. However to imply he was standing there, begging for money, would be a grievous insult. One did not have to watch for long to realize he was not capitalizing on pity one might feel for his "disability", it was plain to see he was more able than not.

He was a busker or rather an athlete performing as many do on street all over the world. Although his mobility seemed to be in the wheelchair that sat patiently next to him, he stood rooted to the stones under his spread feet, like an old tree suited to a harsh environment, thick and solid against the winds. From crutch to crutch, his football (soccer ball, but this is Europe after all) bounced back and forth. Then he would keep the ball airborne with a single crutch. Next he would balance the ball on the end of the shaft of the crutch, carefully keeping the it centred and stable. It would stay there until he lifted it high into the air, directing it over his head. Leaning forward on his crutches, he caught and steadied the ball, then juggled ball off his head in true football style.

I stopped counting after a dozen or so bounces, but he did not stop at that. The ball never touched the ground, he never lost control, and never stumbled. He stands there all day, every day (every nice day, he doesn't much care for the rain), earning a living. He does, if only occasionally, take a break when he feels the need
His name is Carlos Da Silva and he lives in Rio de Janeiro. Speaking in perfect English, he tells me the money from busking is so good in Oslo, he flies here every summer to work. It was clear to me this man possessed far more than the physical strength required to stand all day and perform, he also had the strength of spirit that proclaimed he would not lie down and accept the his fate. Another man asked why he had the crutches. Carlos answered simply and directly, polio, when he was a child. Brushing the question aside as though it were of no importance than the colour of his crutches, he added, but it doesn't matter. He would not be pitied. I pressed him for more details of his life as I snapped photos in the fading light and he willingly spoke about his life. Never once did the ball stop.

He was anxious to get home to watch the Parapan American Games in Rio that were to take place in August. His house was only blocks away from most of the venues and he was quite excited to watch. I found it unlikely he simply watched sports, he was too well built to be some one who contented himself by sitting in the stands or on the couch. Grinning, he told me he was an avid basketball player, he had competed at various levels,and would rejoin his team when he returned home. As with most athletes, he was not limited to one sport. His other passion was distance races and his best time in a marathon was 1h:58m, placing 28 of 400. I could not hide my appreciation for that feat, any endurance race at that pace and distance is gruelling.

Incidentally, his record for keeping the ball aloft is two hours and forty-five minutes, with over twenty-five thousand consecutive bounces.

Music, July 17

After a dinner of delicious thin crust pizza, Jan (the Swedish motorcycle traveler), Richie (the Australian busker), and I (vagrant) debated the plans for the evening. I opined for staying in at the hostel where the beer was cheap and there was guaranteed to be a crowd that would provide for an entertaining evening. After the previous night's successful gathering, I knew it would be possible to create something fun, as long as we had the right ingredients. If Richie was willing to play and sing for us, I knew a crowd would gather and we would have a good night. Richie was indeed amiable to playing and with that, we sat ourselves down on the couch, beer in hand.

Naturally, people came to join us. Some were friends from the previous night, others were new and were looking to share in our conversations. Eventually, Richie sought out his guitar and when he returned, he was ready to play for us. Finding a tall stool and arranging himself comfortably, he began to play. It was a small area, so his voice carried easily around the room. It was still early in the evening and there were many people hanging about the common area. There were groups checking in, heavy packs still on their backs. One or two people were checking their email in the corner with the computers. A few others were chatting idly as they waited for a friend or were just relaxing. Many paused and listened for a moment or two before continuing on their way, but a few stayed for a while.

Then, Richie launched into Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. For the next seven minutes, as he sang the verses and choruses of the poetry, every one was quiet. The crowd that had been busy was now still, stopped dead in their tracks, arrested by the words and the music. Computers sat idle as their users' attention was diverted. For those seven minutes, a room full of strangers were quietly joined in spirit. It was only when his voice faded, did people return from where ever the song had taken them and back to their tasks.

Intermission: Kebabs at the Kebab House Rules. If ever there was an international food, kebabs would be it. So good.

The night was well into its prime by now, but not yet old enough to pass on. Returning to his stool, our Australian busker treated us to more music before passing the guitar on, happy to share. It was picked up by a man born in Toronto, but who had lived his life in Spain. He spoke very little English, but was eager to strum on the guitar for a while. Working his way through Hotel California, we worked our way through our libations.

A man walked into the hostel. Well into the latter part of his life. He was soft spoken, and well seasoned. He wore a faded tweed jacket and clothes that had seen many miles, but were well sewn and would see many more miles. It was easy to see he had, also seen many miles, but was not at all faded. With shaggy grey hair and stubble he carried himself like a man who had seen much and was slow to judge. He checked in, then joined our circle, eager to play his harmonica and sing with Richie. I learned his name was Jan Williams and he had spent 30 years hoboing around the U.S. He grew up in Norway and had a place in the northern islands now, but I never did learn why he was in Oslo. It didn't seem to matter though, he was here and was a friend for the evening. As the guitar found itself back into the hands of its owner, Jan had sat down and began to play. For a while, he and Richie sang the blues, and we listened.

Again the guitar changed hands, first to Jan then to the Spanish man. Each took a turn playing and singing a little. The simple joy of making music and sharing was enough. The guitar was in the hands of the Spaniard, who played lovingly, when the man from Gambia entered. He was another man who had seen many miles and been to many places. He spoke little English and was dressed in a rich purple, traditional robe. A matching cap sat neatly on the top of his head. I don't know how the three of them communicated, neither the Spaniard nor the Gambian man spoke much English, but some how they communicated and they began to play and sing in harmony. Jan had removed a cooking pot from his bag and was tapping out a rhythm to match the Spaniard's. From the three of them came the music of Miles Davis in true jazz fashion. Impromptu and improvised.

This was my night.

Letting the crowd come, July 16

The hostel in Oslo had a small lounge area, but it was part of the open space that also contained the reception and the T.V. Music was usually playing in the background, often battling with the T.V. for auditory supremacy. None the less, there were always people around, drinking from the bar, using the computers, or otherwise hanging about.

The coveted place though, was a spot on the large, arced couch. Occupying a spot here placed you in the middle of everything. With the intention of meeting people, I sat myself down and looked for a likely victim who might indulge me in conversation. It was still early and the only people close were two German girls who were sitting quietly, but after a couple failed attempts to start a conversation, I returned to my book. I remained seated, there wasn't anywhere else I particularly wanted to be and I did not have any desire to hide out in my room, nor was I in the mood to wander the city any further. I had spent the day on the waterfront, some distance from the hostel. Reading alone, but surrounded by people was my preference, for the moment.

I had read very few pages before a Swedish man sat down and began speaking to me. I obliged happily, he was older and not nearly as cute as the German girls, but he was interesting to talk to. Like the man I had met in Lillehammer, he was traveling through to northern Norway by motorcycle and was looking to get out of the rain for a couple days. At least he ended up staying there for a couple days, I am not sure how long he intended to stay. We chatted for some time, from one topic to another, with one beer to another.

Empty beer bottles began to collect on the table, it seems alcohol is always the precursor to any sort of gathering. We were joined by some young lads who had been skateboarding and were quite ready for a rest. Two of them were from Stockholm, like the man traveling on his motorcycle, and the third lad was a Parisian. They were in town to make a skate video of some sort and were sponsored by various companies.

The German girls were content to stay and, to my surprise, participate in the conversation. I think though, much of their participation was due to the charismatic Australian man who joined us. I learned he had spent the last 7 months living in Ireland, busking for the post-bar pedestrians (read: very drunk Irish) and was now traveling a little throughout Europe. His singing and guitar playing were sufficient to finance not only his travels and accommodations, but it was enough that he was able to save up a very large nest egg for his eventual return home. He later confided in me how much he had been able to save, let me just say it was enough for me to be quite jealous and wish I had the ability to sing (read: sing well) and to play an instrument. I suppose it is up to all of us to find that talent we love and use it constructively. Maybe not to be rich, but at least to find some measure of happiness.

The night passed easily as the crowd that had gathered grew and dwindled, as the conversations ebbed and flowed. I found it to be a nice alternative to spending a night out in a club or bar. For once, I was not wading through cigarette smoke and straining to hear people speak.

Hungry for Paper, July 16

I was craving a book. I needed to read. My conversations with Guro rekindled that desire to devour written words, pages at a time, until my eyes hurt and my mind forces me to quietly ponder new perspectives and ideas. Buying a book though, can often be an overwhelming and trying experience for me. Presented with choices numbering in the thousands, I often leave a book store empty handed, unable to decide on one book that I feel I have connected with. Today though, I was on a mission.

In any major city, there will always be more than one book store that will have an English section. In Oslo there were several and I easily found one with a large section devoted to my native tongue. I quietly perused the selections, letting my eyes rest on the spines of the books, contemplating author and title. Atwood, Ondaanje, Hosseini, Herbert. Celebrated and acclaimed authors, some I have read, others I will read later, and of course there were those I wished to reread. For a long while, I stood, randomly selecting sections to read titles, until a name became clear to me. Coehlo.

Coehlo, the author of The Alchemist, perhaps the most personally inspiring book I have chance to read. The Alchemist was given to me by my friend, Nadya, just as I was leaving Ottawa for my adventure. Although a small book and simply written, it reverberated through me as I placed myself in the story. I would happily read more of what this man had thought to pen, perchance there would be more inspiration to be drawn from his books.

From the book store's selection, I chose two books that intrigued me the most. A novel about madness, accepting it, and living in a world that strives for normality (Veronica Decides to Die), and a collection of Coehlo's thoughts, essays, and short stories (Like the Flowing River). Indeed both these titles gave me much to reflect upon. The former led me to be more accepting of the little bits of crazy we all have, hidden or not, and the later influenced my decision to be more faithful in keeping my journal up to date and to allow myself more freedom to express my thoughts. Some of those thoughts will remain in those journals and it will be many years before I allow them to be seen by curious eyes. Others, I suppose I will freely express as I feel necessary.

All in due time though.

Platonic is an Ugly Word, July 14

Do you remember what your mother told you when you were little; Never judge a book by its cover? Every once and a while we get a reminder to the truth of this. Mine came, not as real surprise, but as an interesting addition to my previous observations.

After a day of doing very little and accomplishing almost nothing (it was raining and I was tired), I went over to the Princess of Culinary Delights for dinner. Since we had met, she had divulged some personal details that were, I hesitate to say surprising, but were definitely unexpected. Of course, you will want to know what they are, but I think in the interest of tact and respect, I will leave you guessing. Well, just so I am not a complete jerk, I will give this up: Princess of Fashion and Style is also a law student. Yes fellas, I can arrange introductions.

Onto my original point then. When I got to her place, one of the things that caught my attention was the floor to ceiling bookshelf overflowing with books. This was actually the fourth thing in the list of attention grabbing items. The first was the amount of her shoes I had to climb over just to get in the door, but after shopping with her, I wasn't particularly surprised by this.

As I perused the books, I was surprised at the number of authors and titles I recognized, and by the number of books I had read. For some one who was the first person I met in my travels beyond Canada and a random introduction at that, we certainly had a lot more in common than I had anticipated. We lost the evening discussing the things that interested us and recommending books to each other until neither one of us could stand any more tea and our yawns became frequent. By the time I reached my hostel and was in bed, the sun was coming up.

Leaving Los Rena, July 13

With the morning came the obligatory hangover which, admittedly, could have been a lot worse. I was some how smart enough to hydrate myself during the night and the effects of the alcohol withdrawal were somewhat mitigated. Jo Ann wasn't quite so prudent. Neither one of us felt much like moving though or at least moving quickly. By the time either of us had rolled out of our beds, it was well past noon. God bless our inn keeper and his 2pm check out time.

As we began the arduous process of packing our bags, Jo Ann realized she didn't have her camera and had no idea where she could have lost it. I had a vague notion it could be at the bar, but neither of us could remember using it there. Although she was concerned she had lost it, she didn't seem able to muster up the energy to get too worked up over the potential loss.

Bags packed, we left for the lobby and our gracious host who didn't seem to be in nearly as rough shape as he should have been after having to get up at 6am. He readily agreed to watch our bags for us as we opted to hunt for the camera and maybe get a little bit to eat.

The camera was indeed at the pub, but our memories were still fuzzy and we weren't sure how it got there. I still had that odd recollection of seeing it on our table. We had to wait to get back to the hotel to use Jo Ann's lap top before we could see the photos and whatever damning evidence may be on it, the screen on the camera was broken.

As we flipped though the photos, we laughed at the highlights of the previous evening. The video of the kid driving his POS Citroen or whatever while playing his 50 Cent excessively loud as he drove around the block repeatedly gave us a chuckle. Nothing like a skinny white kid driving daddy's grey sedan through the main street of The Middle of No Where, Norway while listening to his hardcore, gansta rap. Small fish, my friend, very small pond.

We particularly enjoyed the photos of us and the hotel baron as he and I were involved serious discourse. We eagerly showed him the photos, as we sat in the hotel lounge, he said he was as equally oblivious to the camera man as I was. Finally, coming to the end of our photographic and video record, we were ready to view the file that had piqued our curiosity the most. The last file on the camera was a video file. Neither one of us had any idea what was on this video nor did we know who was the artist. Well, imagine my surprise when I heard my own voice in a drunken monologue describing our night out, the surrounding area, the proximity of our hotel, then exclaiming "VIVA LA NORWAY". This is why one should not do shots of tequila.

Since Jo Ann's train wasn't leaving until 5pm, I had to stay in town until 5pm. It was just as well though, according to our city guide and accommodations provider, there was a bus leaving at 5pm that would be cheaper than the train to Oslo. It was only around 3pm at this point so we had a couple hours spend. Jo Ann decided she had lost the will to live and spent the time in sleepy bliss on the couch. I watched Young Guns. Do you think they could have found a worse actor than Emilio Estevez to play Billy the Kid? Thankfully Kiefer was there to lessen my suffering.

My quota for western movies filled for at least the next little while, I tried to shake Jo Ann into this dimension. Eventually she returned from where she was, presumably a place far more comfortable than consciousness. She was a little irritated at me, she could have slept for at least another 15 minutes. I thought that was pretty insensitive of her, she didn't just sit through Estevez badly overact a ruthless, adolescent gunslinger.

Truthfully, I thought it would take her a lot longer than it did for her to get packed and ready to go, then for us to get to the tracks. After her train came and we said our goodbyes, I was left to wait for my bus. I had only about 10 minutes to wait, but I decided to check the schedule that was posted at the bus station next to me. It took me up until that point to realize that Rutebillenstajon was the bus station. Unfortunately, the bus to Oslo was at 15:00. 5pm and 15:00 are not the same, I guess I should have checked the schedule for myself before then. At least there was a train leading to Oslo that was suppose to come within minutes of Jo Ann's train.

I found a couple army conscripts that were waiting for that train as well, but before long we had decided the train simply was not coming and we would have to take the next one at 7pm (1900). There was only one obvious way to pass the time, at the pub. I nursed that beer for a very, very long time. I never did learn the names of the lads, but I did find out a bit about them and there lives.

Every Norwegian man has to do military service for at least a year, I think. These two were stationed at the base just outside of Rena, on security detail. It was a pretty boring post by the sounds of things. They weren't particularly excited to be there, even if they did get to carry big guns all day and shoot their automatic weapons at the range once a week. They were on their way home to Bergen, which is in the west coast and about 7 hours by train from Oslo. The older of the two boys was 23 and was about to be the father of a baby girl. He was on his way home to be with his girlfriend, who I am sure is not impressed he was away for so long. The other lad, well, he was around 20 and was just doing his best to pass his time while he had to do his service.

Finally, that time came and we were able to catch the train. One transfer later, I was back in Oslo and civilization.

Random Adventures and 10 Pin Bowling, July 12

Rain. Why does it always rain in this part of the world, I thought it was summer? No matter, a hot cup of tea and some breakfast was enough to make the sun come out again. It wasn't enough to create emails in my inbox though...

My morning was proving to be very uninteresting, but there is nothing quite like boredom to force a decision. After a few minutes of indecisive pacing, I wandered back up to my room for a hot shower. Hot showers make the world a better place and decisions a little easier (mostly because it means putting them off). By happy circumstance, the TV that was placed for easy viewing from the beds, also allowed for a comfortable view from the shower. I procrastinated under the hot water for a little longer until I got shampoo in my eyes. I spent the rest of the morning watching Rihanna dance with her umbrella.

I checked out of the hostel, again, but this time I wizened up and put my pack in a locker. I had learned my lesson and felt no need to repeat yesterday's full body work out, as much as I probably need it.

Feeling good about my day, I walked up to the promenade to explore the shops and watch the people. I had to withdraw some money before I could do much else, but isn't that always the case? It didn't take me long to find an ATM and I went about the process of refilling my leaky wallet.

Insufficient funds.

Um? I tried a lesser amount.

This machine is not authorized by your bank.

Panic? I kept my emotions under control -barely- and thought things through a little. It might be a weird bank sharing, interac thing. Maybe the solution was another bank. Well, do you think I could find another machine after a half hour of walking up and down the main strip? Of course not. Finally, after exhausting the most obvious spots for an ATM, I was forced to think. Perhaps I ought to use the handy dandy internet thing. I could check my account status and get a better handle on what my malfunction was.

As is always the way, I found another back on the way back to the computer, but I was on a mission and I walked right passed. It only took a few minutes to discover the problem and a few more minutes to rectify the situation with a phone call to a sleepy bank operator. It was 11:30 am for me, but way late (or early?) for her. For some reason, the Norwegian cash machines were withdrawing money from another account. I could breath a sigh of relief, I wasn't broke. Yet.

Money crisis averted, I went back to the promenade. I met an interesting man there who was selling shawls and scarves from Kashmir, made by his family. He spends his time traveling and selling his wares around the world. He looked like a man who loved what he was doing, he had the air of a man who was living his dream. For a couple months at a time, he would rent flat in one city or another, and sell his family's silks. I thought about buying one, but they were expensive (even though he would have given me a deal) and I had no place to carry them.

There was very little else to do in Lillehammer and I wasn't much interested in sticking around. I took a roundabout route back to the train station and did see a pretty creek that ran through the city, but it's not like I haven't seen fourteen thousand of those. As usual, I had to hurry up and wait so I could take the right train to meet up with my American friend, Jo Ann. I certainly have a lot of time, I just wish I would learn to spend that as liberally as I spend money, which I have much less of.

Jo Ann and I had plans to meet in Hamar where she was working then head to a little town called Skarnes. My lonely planet guide had it listed and it seemed like a good idea. A good idea until we realized it was over four hours away. Neither one of us much felt like spending the next fours, essentially the rest of the day, on the train. It would have been close to ten in the evening before we got there. Unsure of our options and, for once, my lonely planet book couldn't suggest anything nearby, we did the only logical thing we could think of. We randomly picked the closest town.

And that's how we ended up in Rena, population 2009 (thank you wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rena,_Norway). Rena has one hotel, two pubs (one of which seems to be closed), and not much else. Oh, there is the massive army base nearby, which is pretty much the only reason the town exists. As we marched up and down the street, it soon dawned on us we had two choices. We could either get back on the train and find somewhere else to be or we could pay the inflated lodging costs at the hotel. We were in the middle of nowhere with seemingly no activities for tourists to do, the answer is obvious. We checked into the hotel.

As we were chatting with the hotel owner/desk clerk, we talked about the possibly of going for a hike. We thought that might be fun, considering how far into the middle of nowhere we were. By the time we had unpacked and settled in for a little while though, we had one thing on our minds. Beer. It was definitely that time. So, back to the front desk. Where is a good place to get a pint and sit on the patio, we asked. Our host graciously pointed out the establishment across the street, reminding us it was the only place to go. We thanked him and made our way across the street. (We would be later thankful of the proximity of the hotel to the drinking establishment, but I am getting ahead of myself)

The pub was a nice little place with room for maybe a dozen outside and twice as many inside. The owner didn't speak much English, but ordering beer in most languages is not difficult. As it frequently does, one beer turns into two, and two into three. Somewhere through our second pint, the hotel keeper/owner/tourist information guide left his post to joined his buddies for a few rounds and a rousing game of darts. For those of you who know me well, you may be aware I can sometimes be a little on the gregarious side. Fueled by even small quantities of alcohol, the little voice in my head that keeps me out of trouble and that I do so well to ignore, is utterly silenced. I did a very good impression of the NY Yankees pitcher-styled dart player. The trash talking had begun and I was making new friends.

Near the end of our third beer (that's when I stopped counting), the hotel owner/pro darts player came up to us as he and his buds were leaving. They were off to go bowling and we were welcome to join them. It took us all of 13.7 seconds to concur, bowling was a damn good idea. It may have been the beer talking. I am pretty sure it was.

It took us a few minutes to find the bowling alley. It was at the other end of town, maybe 900 metres away, around a corner, and on the back side of a strange building. Jo Ann told me it was inappropriate to bring up the movie "Hostel".

With our slick bowling shoes laced up tight and our balls chosen carefully (Jo Ann picked a pink one, mine was blue), the battle lines had been drawn. Our first match was against each other. I had hoped to at least put up a good fight, but it was soon apparent I was clearly out matched. After I was solidly shellacked, we joined the opposing ranks of the dueling locals. Maybe with a small army supporting me, I could maybe prove a worthy opponent. Not even close. The first round went decisively to Jo Ann and her crew. By this time the folks I had harassed at the pub were feeling more than a little vindicated and they were saying things that made the old lady blush. Dramatic dart thrower was an equally bombastic bowler. He was equivocal in his feelings for Jo Ann, who he had decided was my girlfriend. He pronounced his ever changing opinions often and loudly. Maybe a little belligerently. In the end the second round went to us, but I am not sure my one strike was enough to reclaim any honour I may have had nor was enough to particularly contribute to the win.

Since no one was able to see straight, we decided the best thing to do would be to pack it in for the night. So we staggered back to the pub. My friend the hotel keeper was in worse shape than I was, at least I could stand without swaying (I think), and decided give up for the evening. Jo Ann had already disappeared into the pub for some vodka shots and I didn't see her until I went in to sit. That's how I remember it anyway, unfortunately there is photographic evidence to the contrary. There is a fantastic photo of yours truly in deep conversation with the hotel keeper, while Jo Ann posed with us for the camera. I think I know who took the photo, but as is evident in the pictures, I am completely unaware of the photographer.

It was 11pm and still fairly bright out side, but things were getting a little fuzzy for me. Fortunately, bad ass dart thrower and bowler extraordinaire bought me a beer and a shot of tequila. Of course that would make things much better. It wasn't long after that and after making a few promises to be up at 8am to paint for one of the locals, Jo Ann and I decided enough was enough and it was time to find the hotel. How fortuitous it was across the street.

Midnight rolled around and it was starting to get dark, everything was awfully fuzzy. Once in our room and starting to get ready for bed, we exchanged a few inane comments, none of which I remotely remember. What I do remember is this; it was late and I was feeling a little, um, shall we say randy. Using my best swagger, I walked over to Jo Ann and kissed her, which of course was received well. Feeling as though things could go very well for me, I surreptitiously placed a couple items next to the bed. Not quite ready do my best Casanova, I left things as they were for the moment so I could drink some very cold water and brush my teeth. As I stood over my bag, trying to retrieve my tooth brush, I noticed the ground was oddly getting closer. Sitting seemed like a better option, I was well on my way there anyway.

While enjoying the stability from a lower centre of gravity, I started feeling a little religious. Getting up, I swayed into the bathroom as though I were a zealot lost in the spirit world and said a few porcelain prayers. I felt remarkably better and knew my morning would be much better for my devotion. I brushed my teeth and collapsed in a heap on my bed and did not move until the morning. Jo Ann had long left the world of the conscious.

The Man Who Went Up a Mountain and Came Down with Sore Legs, Lillehammer July 11

I thought I would start the day off right, with a cup of tea and some much needed breakfast. I didn't know at the time how much I would need the energy from my morning meal. I wanted to check my email, but the wireless connection on the hostel's communal laptop wasn't working. I fiddled with it for a little while, but it was morning and my brain is slow enough at that time of day without having to read Norwegian. It wasn't long before I gave up on the laptop and went in search of another machine. (I did find a kiosk in the information centre which became my link to the outside world while I was in Lillehammer)

I had expected to leave that day to meet my American friend in Hamar, so I packed up my stuff and checked out of the hostel. I had no immediate plans to leave the city, so I thought I would explore a little of what Lillehammer had to offer. (This is when I should have put my 20 Kilo pack in a locker at the train station, why I didn't...)

Lillehammer is still living off the '94 Olympic high and the main attractions are the Olympic museum, which was of little interest to me, and the ski jump. The sky jump is at the top of the hill (read mountain) in the city. I had decided I would like to see after my Swedish room mate from the previous night had mentioned he watched people practicing. I thought it would be pretty cool to watch some real ski jumpers, even if it was in the summer.

It wasn't hard to find the ski jump, there were signs everywhere indicating the route and it was at the top of the mountain. There may have been a less circuitous route for those not driving, but it was a nice day for a walk, the rain had let off for a while and the sun was out. It was a long way up the hill, but when I got to the base of the jump, I realized there were stairs to the top. There was only one thing I could do, I had to go up. There was no way I was going to come to this city, get the hill, and not climb the stairs. 40lbs backpack be damned, I am going up. It wasn't exactly a record setting pace, but I did manage to get to the top, with more than one break. Please remember, these stairs are exactly as steep as the ramp the skiers whoosh down to jump over a hundred metres. It's pretty steep.

I did have to duck under the ramp for little while as it started to rain, but at least I was sheltered. While I was hanging out under an Olympic ski ramp, I got a great vantage point as the skier who was practicing that day, went whoosh down the sloop into oblivion. The ramp is covered with an artificial turf that is kept wet with a mister and the skier lands on a very steep section which is of a similar material. Whoosh.... fwump. Very cool.

I stayed at the top for quite a while. It was easier than going those stairs and it was raining. There was a covered terrace with some picnic tables, sitting there was preferable to doing just about anything else. Also the view was nice.

Eventually I began my decent. It was way harder than the ascent. The lactic acid was happily lounging in my legs and no intention of vacating the premises. My legs protested and shook during the long and slow process I can best describe as falling without much style. I eventually made it to the train station and promptly sat down for a good long while. I had some food stashed in my pack, so I had a little picnic and thought about what I was going to do next. I knew one thing above all, I wasn't going to do much. After calling my friend and making plans for the next day, I checked back into the hostel.

My socks had descended into the 7th circle of nastiness, so it was fortunate I had the room to my self. Laundry detail is not something you want to share with a stranger when the quarters were roughly the size of Millhaven's maximum security solitary confinement lockers.

Now that my funky socks and the rest of my clothes were hanging to dry all over the bathroom, I was free to do a lot of nothing. What I really wanted was to use the internet, which of course I could only do if I fixed the Norwegian computer. So I did. I probably would have had it fixed sooner, but there was much flirting with the hostel employee. She had chocolates and asserted I should have some. What? I love chocolate. The fact they were offered by a pretty woman has nothing to do with anything.

The rest of my evening was spent quietly taking care of correspondence and not walking up or down and mountains.

No Matter how Crazy you are... July 10

When I arrived in Lillehammer, it dawned on me, I had absolutely no idea where the hostel was and everything was closed. Some day, I might learn the prudence of planning, but it wouldn't be that day or the next. I briefly considered wandering in the vain hope of finding the hostel or maybe a sign to point me in the right direction, it was a small town after all. After what was a brief moment of insanity, I came back to my senses. I had written down the phone number of the hostel, just in case, so I decided to call them. Brilliant, no? Well, the fella on the other end of the line said the hostel was at the train station. I was at the train station. When I turned around 180 degrees, I found myself right in front of the hostel entrance. Sigh, what's a guy to do? It could have been worse, right?

As with the other hostels I have been to in small towns, this one was equally as boring. I guess young people tend to stick to the bigger cities that have the night life and larger attractions. Go figure.

My room mate, however, was an interesting man. He was on his annual motorcycle trip. Every year he spends 2-3 weeks riding through whatever Scandinavian route interests him. He usually camps, but the weather had been so atrocious, he decided to have a dry night in a hostel. He was an introverted man who seemed to prefer his own company, but he certainly had a lot to express. He had recently broken off his relationship with his girlfriend of a year and a half. It seems she cared more about her dog than she did for him. I think that would be enough for me to call off a relationship as well, I just know I could let that last a year and a half.

While he was away, it was up to her to deal with the apartment they had together. He seemed okay with letting her take care of all of their possessions and not having a place when he finished his trip. Well, he was a little concerned about having to look for a place in Stockholm, I guess housing there is difficult to find.

My favourite thing about this man though, is his hobby. Marathons. He liked to travel around, just to run marathons. Now I like running, but I guess this is a whole other level of addiction. He was still recovering from the marathon he ran the previous Saturday. With a cracked rib. In a few months, he would be traveling with some friends to do some extreme running in the mountains. I think that meant something like a hundred or more kilometres. To each his own, I guess.

In the morning, his parting words were, he was off to church to get right with God. It was raining again.

Oslo for an Evening and a Day, July 9-10

I was able to find a hostel with a free bed easily enough. It was also only a quick and direct walk from the central station where I had left my American friend. No, I didn't get lost this time. After a short time jockeying to keep my position, I had finally checked in.

For a Monday night, the town was buzzing with activity. Metallica was playing in town the next night and there were people everywhere looking for tickets, buying and selling t-shirts, and generally stoked for the concert. I have seen Metallica live before, they put on a pretty wild show so I could understand the anticipation the crowds were feeling. Unfortunately, since Metallica was in town, that meant all the hostels were booked for the next night. I would have to leave the city if I wanted to avoid an asphalt bed. Oh well, I would deal with that in the new day. For the moment, it was time to enjoy the city and the company of my friend.

Although it was late, Princess Hotness was eager to get out of the house for a little while. She has a room mate and their history is complicated. We met at the only landmark I could remember from my hour in the city: the tiger that prowls the fountain at the train station. It was good to see her again, although this time she hadn't spent 2 hours getting ready before going out. I almost had heart failure when I saw her in jeans,a t-shirt (not Metallica), and her hair tied back in a pony-tail.

We spent the evening sitting and working out her recent boy troubles. First at the Hard Rock Cafe but, the music was loud and prominently feature a certain band that people were excited about. It didn't take long before we had enough of the rock that ambiance (as long as it took me to drink my beer, infer what you like) and we moved to another cafe. This one though, had far more charm.

The main strip of Oslo is a walking street called Carl Johans gata. You can find just about anything here, including the predatory Nigerian prostitutes. I saw more than one unsuspecting man (or group of men) react in shock as they suddenly had a woman hanging off their arm proposing sex. The number of these women is simply astounding, within a block you could see ten women clearly looking for their prey. The presence of my Princess Guardian ensured I would not be approached in my apparent obliviousness.

The cafe we found though, was in an old and very large church that had, at some point, been converted into various shops and restaurants. The outer terrace was inset in a long curved wall that wrapped itself all the way around to the opposite side of the building. We sat in the cool evening, basking in the candlelight and the near perpetual light of the northern sky, looking through the pillars as the crowds passed, and enjoying the simple pleasure of good company and hot tea.

I spent the early part of the next day, after I had grudgingly checked out of the hostel, wandering the city. I had time to meander through the streets and see some of the city.

Sometimes it is fortuitous to look the part of a traveler, people are more likely to approach, and to be approached, by some one who looks like they are on their own adventure. That day, I was wearing my well faded Tilly hat, the one I have had since I was 14 and looks very much like the kind of thing one would wear more for practicality than style. After I had walked a while, I had decided to rest my legs and observe some of the more colourful individuals as they moved through the streets. The two drunk and/or high men who yelled obscenities at each other, made threatening gestures, then shared a cigarette held my attention for a while. Then there was the the slipper wearing man in the form-fitting, slightly translucent, black dress harassing the street portraiture artists trying to make a living sketching tourists who would for 15 minutes or so. From what I gathered, the man in the dress was living his dream and dancing for the masses in the street.

My observations were interrupted by a local man on his way home from work who came over to start a conversation with me. He was also watching some of the people who were entertaining me. It was one of his pleasures in life to walk slowly down Carl Johans gata after his day at the travel agency so he could watch the people as them went on their way. Sometimes, he said, he would stop for a coffee and one of the cafes so he could sit while he watched people go on about their business. I noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, but I decided not to say anything. In retrospect, I think I would have liked to learn more about him, simply as a matter of course. Every person has their own story and if we take the time to listen, we can learn so much from each other. Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all did that a little more? After we chatted for a little while, we exchanged pleasantries and he wandered off towards home, which while I suspect may have been empty, was still a place he was happy.

As for me, it was getting on time to catch my train to Lillehammer.

Slow Boat to Oslo, July 10

Finding the harbour and the right pier was a fairly simple task, I managed to not get lost and was there at a reasonable time. The path was well marked and the cruise ship-sized ferries were a pretty good give away. At the ticket window, I happened to overhear the person next to me order her tickets in English. Perfect, I had found a traveling partner. Although, I didn't yet know it would take 8 hours to get to Oslo and how much I would appreciate talking to some one along the way. I dawdled long enough so we boarded at the same time and I could make some inane comment about being unsure of where I was to go.

It wasn't long before we were friends and were sitting comfortably on the top deck with a beer - it was passed noon somewhere, if not where we were- and some sandwiches. My new friend was from Arizona and was on an internship representing a horse breed association during training camps put on throughout Europe. It was basically two months of traveling and meeting people who love the same things she does. Not only was it all expenses paid, but it was also a paid position. It is a pretty tough job right after college.

Our day was spent meandering and exploring the ship that was as big as I have ever been on. It had ten decks, two for cars, sleeping berths, four or five restaurants, a cinema (playing something in Norwegian I think), stores, a promenade deck or two, and where ever else we didn't bother to explore. There was enough keep some one unable to sit still, like me, busy for a while.

In Oslo, my friend had the foresight to grab a map, for some reason I opted not to. Perhaps I knew it would be a lost cause anyway. As it was, she had a worse sense of direction than I did. After some time and much wandering, she surrendered the map to me and I found our way to the train station. She was off to another city and I needed to find a place to stay.

The Dorm Room, July 8

Sunday night I stayed in Frederikshanv at busy hostel filled with scads of teenage girls with too much hairspray, old guys traveling in a pack of mopeds, and a couple of families monopolizing the common area. The one computer, at the check-in desk was occupied by a couple little girls tasked with whacking the moles. I could not think of a more perfect recipe for boredom!

My my bed was in a dorm room at the other end of the complex down the hall, so after I elbowed my way through a gaggle of 15 year-old girls and dodged the greying men in their underwear, I found myself unlocking the door to a massive dorm room with space for 50 people. My first thoughts as I entered the room went something like this: "Is that a man or a woman in their underwear changing on the bed next to the door? It must be a man, women tend to wander off to somewhere more private to change."

No sooner had those thoughts passed through my mind and into oblivion, did I hear the person say, "un suk, un suk." Being the linguistic genius that I am, I interpreted that as "one second, one second." Apparently I was wrong in my assumption. I did my best to back out of the room quickly, but succeeded only in bashing into the door and wall, tripping over the step, and struggling to close the door with the loose hinges that fell out of alignment when opened. My retreat was less expeditious. By the time I made in into the hall again with the door close, she muttered something that sounded like she was dressed and it was okay to come back into the dorm room.

Without pausing or looking at the speaker who had chosen the most inappropriate place to be prudish, I crossed the room to the furthest possible bed and began the process of setting up camp for the night. It was only nine o'clock, but my dorm room compatriot was already wrapped up in her bed and was making sounds like maybe she wanted to sleep. I did my best to be quiet, but ramming my large pack into my locker took less finesse and more brute force. I wasn't too tired nor ready for bed, but with my options limited, I set off to find some eats.

After a little wander through the town and a kylling-burger, I was back at the hostel by 11. Again I made an effort to be quiet as I came in and out after brushing my teeth, but, again, the door made skulking around less of a possibility. Finally in bed and rather annoyed I was sharing this huge room fit for 100 people with a person who took the bed right next to the door, I set off to sleep content with myself for my thoughtfulness. Two minutes after I was in bed, she was up and off to the bathroom.

How a broken printer changed my mind.

Sitting in the train station, I had to decided where I was going to go next. So, I sat. I paced. I really didn't know where I wanted to go next. I felt like maybe I needed to get out of Denmark for a bit and do some exploring. While I sat and/or paced, I started thinking about going south to Spain, but it would be a little silly to go directly there. Alright then, I will take the train down to Paris, see the city and the memorials on the beaches to the north. Then I would make my way down to Barcelona. Perfect, I had a plan and had made a decision. Thank you Dr. G for the Lonely Planet.

I bravely stepped up to the ticket counter and asked how much it would cost to get to Paris. Nope, she wouldn't tell me. A broken printer prevented her from selling those tickets. She advised I take the train to the next town and I would be able to book what ever I wanted from there. Let's do it then! I bought my ticket to Fredericia and I was happy in my decision. For about 4.7 minutes. By the time I had gotten on the train, I realized from Fredercia I could take the ferry to Oslo. That was an interesting thought, there were people in Oslo I wanted to see. I guess when I got to Fredericia, I would have a decision to make, south to Paris or north to Norway.

When I pulled out my map to see how far I had to go, I realized I had mixed up the towns. Frederica did not have any ferries, the town I was thinking of was Frederikshavn, all the way to the north. I guess that settled that then... Except I really wanted to go to Oslo now. That meant back tracking and...

At the next stop I was off the train and on the next one heading back to the north. I hadn't had my ticket checked yet, so when the ticket guy came, I could play the dumb tourist. All I had to do was get back where I came from, get a refund, then buy the right ticket. I hadn't gotten nearly far enough by the time the guy came to check the tickets, so I ignored him. Once you show your ticket the first time, they don't ask to see it again and there is often a different person checking. Unless he asked, I wasn't going to present my ticket. I will play the tourist card every chance I get. He looked at me, but kept going. Sweet. I win. I stayed on the train past my stop right until the end of the line at Ålborg. I figured if I had gotten as far as I had, I would just enjoy the free ride.

Once I was in Ålborg, I though it would be a good idea to make sure I had a place to stay in Frederikshavn before I got on the train. It had been raining a lot and I didn't want to get wet while I was sleeping. I was in luck, there was a bed at the hostel. Onward to the next city.

I was that much closer to Norway. This was July 8, once month since I had left Canada.

Tall Ships and No Where to go

I left Odense pretty much as soon as I could. Now that I had my Hans Christian Anderson book, I had no real reason to stay there. Although the off chance of running into crazy artist was a compelling reason to stick around, it wasn't enough to keep me there. I pointed myself in the direction of Åarhus, where there was a big tall-ships race. I thought it would be pretty amazing to see the big sailing ships. As many of you may know, I have a bit of a dream to sail. If you don't know about that dream, ask around and you might find some decent stories of my ill-advised learning methods.

Once I got into Århus, I went directly to the tourist information centre, got a map, got my bearings, and proceeded to go in the completely wrong direction. Fortunately, a local who spoke English saw me looking at my map and assumed, correctly, I was lost. She pointed me in the right direction. This would not be the first day I went in the completely wrong direction, but more on that later. I managed to find the harbour fairly easily after that helpful nudge. It wasn't too difficult though, the tall ships have tall masts that offer a helpful navigation point.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the harbour and enjoying the ships. There were a lot of them. A lot. Some as small as 30 feet to as big as way huge. 4 masts and lots of sails. I should know how long they are, but I forget and I didn't bother to write it down. Suffice it to say, they were as big as big got. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I decided it would be better to keep my 40 pound pack on my back in case I found a ship that was looking for a crew. (This will not be the first time I regret carrying my pack all day, but you will have to wait until I tell you about Lillehammer for that)

As it happens, I did manage to find a ship looking for crew to sail to Finland. It took me a while, but I finally screwed up the courage to ask. It was a crazy idea, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't even try. This is why I am here, right? So I asked. Turns out, I have to pay him for the privilege of working for him. It was like that on every other boat looking for crew as well. The luxury of working my tail off ran from 500 to 1000£. Do the math and that is something like 1000-2000$C. Um... What? I left the harbour in a rather foul mood. Oh yeah, it also rained. Hard. Fortunately this time I had my rain gear. Thanks mom.

My next step was to get to an Internet cafe to check my email, I had requested a room in town, but needed to see if there was a confirmation. I left the harbour in the direction I though was the least circuitous route. By the time I found the cafe I was looking for, and it took me a while, I realized I was about 4.7 minutes from the harbour I had just left. Only, I walked for about 45 minutes, sight-seeing. Arg.

Turns out the hostel I had emailed was full for the night. So was the other one in town. Now I was starting to sweat a little, where was I going to sleep? Denmark is a small country. I called the hostel in the next town over and got a bed there. Right, now I had to walk back to the station and, you guessed, took a wrong turn. I think I may have been a little sleep deprived.

When I finally got to the town Randers, it occurred to me I had no idea where the hostel was or how to get there. I thought the best thing to do would be to knock down a stack of flyers to get the attention of the cashiers so I would have an excuse to ask them if they knew where it was. Turns out they did and they even provided me with a map with the route traced out for me. Denmark is a fairly flat country. Except for this town and the hostel was at the top. After a full day of hiking with my pack on my back, I did not appreciate having to walk to the top of a hill. I did it though and I survived.

I can't say I highly recommend the hostel in Randers. Unless you are traveling with your family and don't mind going to bed and waking up to the sound of screaming kids...