3. Home Life
It's 2:34 AM in Fagernes, Norway
and outside the Cabin Bakkebu,
the rain still falls and the creek next to the outhouse south of our bed
rushes harder over the roads and the rocks and the bends.
Rachel and I would spend our nights playing rummy and tiddlywinks.
However
it was not called tiddlywinks
but for the life of me I cannot remember the game's name.
There were no squidgers to be used,
and rather than a pot, the objective
was a target in part of the box that housed the game.
We couldn't read the instructions on the bottom of the box,
but Rachel glowed beautiful in the firelight
with her perfectly imperfect skin
and unwashed blonde hair
as she attempted to pronounce the Norwegian.
There was no way for us to know if techniques like a squop
would carry over into this game we were collectively coming up with
but possibly playing one hundred percent correctly.
That decades old wood-burning furnace that lit Rachel up radiantly
kept us warm in the cold damp nights
as did the old Rødningen family blankets stacked on top of an old wooden chair.
All of this in Rune's passed down cabin that is usually occupied by him and Tone,
his wife, and their two beautiful girls,
Olida and Etal.
They made us dinner that first night.
Hawaiian pizza with condiments like ketchup and salad dressing
and they gave us cold soda and carbonated water from their Soda Stream.
They gave us conversations.
And we answered questions about the States,
and they answered questions we had about their home.
Rune told us about how out in the country,
in Valdres
in Fagernes
that to the city folk, they were what you would call rednecks.
I let him know that from our small town,
we were considered hicks too.
They took us through mountain roads in a downpour,
our gas floored to keep up,
and they handed us keys to their cabin named Bakkebu
Where we stayed for four days and three nights.

4. A Severe Lack of Leg Room

It's 2:36 AM and the Europlug Type C adapter we bought at a 7/11
hums loud in my ear, as I try to sleep, like the engines of the Boeing 777
that we took overseas from SeaTac airport.
But instead of sleeping I watched The Day the Earth Stood Still,
the 1951 version,
one of my favorite movies
with one ear pod of the worst headphones that we have ever owned
(thank you, Norwegian Air).

There must be security for all
Or no one is secure.

Outside the window, the rain still ticks on the glass
and this foreign place continues to push on the walls of this cabin.
Valdres,
mountains around here spit when it rains.
Where there is no waterfall, there will be one tomorrow.
Rune told us on a tour of the area that South is the way the water flows.
The cardinal in Valdres is deemed incorrect it seems
and I found out here that I was too.
I miss home,
My apartment in Portland or my childhood house in Bonners Ferry,
but I feel more at home at Bakkebu these days
than I do anywhere else anyway.
Tomorrow, we will say our goodbyes as we load up our Toyota.
I will shake Rune's hand
and give a hug to Tone and Olida and Etal.
Etal.
Rachel called her Elda for the couple days we spent with them.
“And what do you think of this, Elda?”
“Elda, what type of things do you like to do?”
And she was never corrected.
And they never seemed bothered.
And now we have a name for our daughter.

5. The Worst Place in Norway
a. Tourists

Aurlandsfjord came
but not before we explored the beautiful little European town
while our vehicle was stuck in construction waiting to go up Bjørgavegen,
A tight, twisting two lane road disguised as only one.
We ate pizza bagels and cinnamon rolls from the SPAR Aurland
on a dock at a picnic table at the edge of Aurlandsfjord.

One could argue that Flåm would be the tourist's high point
with its picturesque and classic Norwegian high fjord walls
and a deep, hidden small town charm.
It has its valleys that opened up for us after we got drunk at the brewery
then stumbled into the Coop Marked for more beer
and back to our campground west of there
where we drank beers under a gazebo outside the laundry room
with a German couple
and the pouring rain.
That night in Flåm is one I will not forget;
flooded tents and a valley that changes drastically when wet.

But the day before this,
after the picnic table,
the Bjørgavegen opened after four hours of eager delay
and we camped on Prest above Stegastein and Aurlandsvangen.
Our tent sat above the cairn,
above 1300 meters.
The water rest calm below us as we watched the clouds roll in
and the wind began to pick up.

b. Tall Tales; Or How She Taught Me to Love the Fjord
Lay me down here
among and under the stars
before I float with you over our personal myth.
The alabaster skin of our own Cardiff Giant.
The curves and subtleties of our Fiji Mermaid
The tall gabbro walls of Prest.
I can feel it all under me
as she lays there in the midnight moonlight.

6. Til Sidst
a. Bryggen Bergen Buildings
Here we are again
among the sound of accordion
whose chords of disappointment
ring out under the Bryggen Bergen Buildings
Surrounded by the whores and virgins,
the mortals and gods,
the Vikings and tourists
and the king cod.
Yes, down here at Bryggen Bergen
with all of it's goddamn rain
that, without a doubt,
always gets the last word in.

b. “The high houses look at one another with crystal eyes”
“de himmelhoye husene star og undrer seg pa om de er guder”.
Rolf Jacobsen wrote this
and he was right.
These houses, high as the sky,
may wonder if they are gods.
I know that they are.
8:34 post meridiem on this fall evening
they are still up there in the hills
in the cold Norwegian dark,
high above where we drink our Hansa pilsners
on these stools against the bar at Pingvinen
and masses of people are out for dinner, sitting
at the tables with candles, cutlery, bottles of wine.
A communion
at Pingvinen,
where the bartender looked at us strange for ordering only ost og
flatbrød like we were starved
for cash
starved
of kroner
But plenty of it was still in my pocket
and all we were starved of
was conversation.

c. Sonett
“Grace appears most purely in that human form which either has no consciousness or an infinite consciousness.” -Heinrich von Kleist, “On the Marionette Theatre”
Hark! a bastion of hope under a guise
as a country that would bring us progress
in the acceptance of our change; abscised!
In Oslo where each chat felt like trespass
to the valley district of Fagernes
glory to He with his dark blue eyes of Christ.
Time with Eve, bed down deep in Valdres.
My Broken jar, her mind aligned with Kleist.
Has this land instilled in me a theist?
Of Her, in Bryggen, amongst the Buskers
and fish mongers; gravlax, bread, cream cheese spiced
sat down near the tchotcke-hocking hucksters.
And we'll go home, cheerful and voluble
without the serenity of Bakkebu.