Stockholm: Latin America Day

In November of last year, the New Yorker published a profile of Thomas Friedman that I only just read in January. In it, the famed author and journalist quotes economist Paul Romer:

"A crisis is a terrible thing to waste."

Romer's words could have easily served as the subtitle for Sweden's recent "Latin America Day," where the tone was one of hope and opportunity. The event, held at the Sveriges Riksdag (the Swedish parliament) in Stockholm, was a last-minute surprise during my February travels.

As part of my journey through Scandinavia, I made a five day stop in Sweden's island capital, where I was put up by His Excellency the Uruguayan Ambassador to Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, and his wife. (Uruguay is a small country; apparently the Ministry of Foreign Affairs can afford to lump all the Scandinavian and Baltic nations under a sole diplomatic umbrella.) I know them as Manuel and Marta, friends of my mother's from their time in Miami at the Uruguayan Consulate. Marta, especially, developed a close friendship with my mother through their volunteer work with the Asociación de Mujeres Uruguayas de Florida (Uruguayan Women's Association of Florida). For any architects or engineers out there, Marta is also the daughter of famed Uruguayan Eladio Dieste who invented the Gaussian vault. You've gotta love the Uruguayan family tree; shake it hard enough, and you never know who might fall out.

From what I could observe, Manuel's job is as exhausting as it is stimulating. His presence (and, frequently, Marta's) is required at multiple diplomatic events on a daily basis: cocktails at the United Arab Emirates embassy, dinner with the Spanish, royal meet-and-greet at the Palace, not to mention responsibilities as mundane as riding the embassy car to the airport to pick up Uruguayan and Latin American VIPs. In his down time, Manuel removes his suit coat, kicks off his shoes, and stretches his wiry frame out on the plush couch in their living room, where he indulges in the daily cable broadcast of Cuéntame como pasó, a popular and long-running Spanish TV show that follows a family from the Franco years into the 1990s. Manuel's laptop is seldom far from his fingertips; he surfs the web in his stocking feet, alternating between BBC news and Mininova, the torrent downloading site where he downloads movies to watch when he is traveling.

Marta, with short clipped hair and a tan complexion even in the dead of Swedish winter, is still looking for more activities to occupy her time. She tells me, in that low, smoky voice characteristic of women from the River Plate region, that she misses the network of friends she left behind in Miami. And then she shows me the thick stack of diplomatic invitations, extended in ornate, stenciled writing to "His Excellency and partner," to dinners and receptions and teas and so on.

One of these invitations was to "Latin America Day," a day long conference featuring such notable Latin American specialists as Enrique Iglesias and Pierre Schori. On Manuel and Marta's enthusiastic offer (and because I miss the Latin Americanist environment), I decided to attend.

Latin America has always been of great importance to Sweden, and vice versa. When violent dictatorships ravaged much of the region's intelligentsia in the last century, many, particularly from South America, fled to the northern, amnesty-granting nation. And they remained there. Many even went on to become members of parliament

"The many Latin Americans who live in Sweden are an important asset to our society," began Gunnar Wieslander, State Secretary to the Minister of Trade, as he launched into his presentation entitled "Latin America and Sweden - a Broad Relation." He went on to note that "more students than ever study Spanish in Sweden." Latin America is "more important than our neighbor Russia, and more important, even, than the giant China." Wieslander's claim, though broad and not deeply explored in his key note address, was echoed both by his mastery of Spanish and his expert knowledge of the region (later showcased during the panel debate). He wrapped up his talk with an earnest request directed to the Latin American statesmen and businessmen in the room: "Please think of us as ready to work on equal footing."

Next up was superstar Pierre Schori, former Swedish Ambassador to the United Nations and recent author of the book "The Years of the Dragon´s Teeth - September 11, the Iraq War and the World after Bush." He was a member of the parliament back in 1982 when "Gabo" (Gabriel García Márquez) came to Stockholm to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Schori recalled how the Colombian Ambassador commenced ill-advised festivities by handing out bottles of rum to parliamentarians. Unfortunately, someone higher up decided it was "not appropriate" and put an end to the rum. "But I can assure you we all enjoyed it very much," Schori proclaimed, smiling at the audience.

His talk went on to address Latin American gains (a major theme throughout the conference) and the outlook for U.S.-Latin American relations. He remarked on poverty reduction in the region, signaling positive strides while noting that income gaps have widened. "La pobreza tiene color y es femenina," (Poverty has a color, and it is feminine) he added, highlighting where there is significant room for improvement.

Another trend, and one that has been concretized by the economic crisis, is that Latin America "speaks with its own voice," Schori said, borrowing Brazilian President Lula's recent words in Madrid after receiving the Cervantes Prize. This is in marked difference to the region's position in past crises. Now, Schori explained quoting OAS Secretary General José Miguel Insulza, there has been shift to "create policies with countries, not for them." On the subject of the U.S. and what Obama can do for Latin America, Schori was more cynical, citing Obama's already full plate (the state of the American economy, health care, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan). Though he recognized the closing of Guantanamo, Schori cautioned against being overly optimistic: "A good signal would be for the U.S. not only to close Guantanamo but to hand it back to its rightful owners."

Enrique Iglesias followed Schori's talk by delving straight into the current global crisis, which he called the "perfect crisis." Why? "Consumers don't consume, investors don't invest, banks don't lend, and governments don't collect taxes." It is, Iglesias asserted, a "dramatic crisis of confidence...and the capitalist system depends on confidence."

In the last decade, Latin America has reaped the fruits of a "bonanza:" it "learned how to manage the economy" and joined the new world geography, exporting food, energy and metals. Consequently, the region saw an overall reduction of poverty from 45% to 35%, saved $450 billion in reserves, and currently boasts inflation and unemployment figures in the single digits, as well as stability. The crisis has brought with it a regrettable series of effects that threaten these tremendous strides. Tourism is down, as are remittances and commodities prices, and the region is feeling credit crunch.

"But Latin America is better prepared than ever to deal," Iglesias stated in an unequivocally positive tone. For the first time, "emerging markets are not part of the problem: they are part of the solution." What's more, Latin America posseses a great and unique asset: "Now is the time to activate integration," he urged. "A new world will emerge;" one in which "maybe we can tackle other problems." (A crisis is, indeed, a terrible thing to waste.) Amidst all these potential opportunities, Iglesias underscored the importance of keeping alive poverty reduction policies: "Ten points is a conquest, and it would be very dramatic if we lose that. If we return people to poverty." He concluded by impressing on us the singular chance offered by the crisis to not only put order in house economically but ethically. (To my knowledge, it is a rare thing to hear a key note speaker at a trade conference appeal to our sense of right and wrong while discussing economic policy.)

After Iglesias, Johan Schaar spoke on managing climate change as part of the new development agenda. Schaar, Director of the Commission on Climate Change and Development, also pointed to the interlinked nature of current crises (finance, climate, food, and energy) which offers us the opportunity to deal with them simultaneously. Stefan de Vylder, an Associate Professor of Development Economics, then stepped up to the podium and bemoaned "THE IRONY" of the current situation. How "the recipe today is the opposite of what it was" when Latin American countries were in economic turmoil. (For those of you unfamiliar with recent Latin American economic history, nations in financial crisis were sternly instructed to restrict their spending and follow an extremely austere fiscal regimen, as dictated by the IMF; of course now that developed countries are in crisis, these recommendations have been completely reversed. Spend, spend, spend and "stimulate" the economy, say the fiscal experts. What magnificent hypocrisy. Tsk tsk.)

De Vylder's somewhat tongue-in-cheek address, entitled "It Is Not Our Fault This Time! Latin America Coping With Past and Present Financial Crises," reiterated Latin America's relatively good position today: just last year, 70% of all reserves were in emerging and developing markets. Latin American banks, specifically, don't have toxic assets.

Whatever the post-crisis future brings, developing countries and markets will need to play a markedly stronger role. And there is reason to believe that this is a very good thing.

Tromsø: Aurora Borealis

Auroras, sometimes called the northern and southern (polar) lights or aurorae (singular: aurora), are natural light displays in the sky, usually observed at night, particularly in the polar regions. They typically occur in the ionosphere. They are also referred to as polar auroras. In northern latitudes, the effect is known as the aurora borealis, named after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, and the Greek name for north wind, Boreas by Pierre Gassendi in 1621.^[1] The aurora borealis is also called the northern polar lights, as it is only visible in the sky from the Northern Hemisphere, the chance of visibility increasing with proximity to the north magnetic pole, which is currently in the arctic islands of northern Canada. Aurorae seen near the magnetic pole may be high overhead, but from further away, they illuminate the northern horizon as a greenish glow or sometimes a faint red, as if the sun was rising from an unusual direction. The aurora borealis most often occurs from September to October and from March to April. The northern lights have had a number of names throughout history. The Cree people call this phenomenon the "Dance of the Spirits."

(Thank you, Wikipedia.)

I came to Tromsø in search of the northern lights.

Wait, let me clarify. This entire trip, through Norway, first, and then on to Sweden and Denmark, was a direct result of my seeking them out. That, and, the 2003 Danish film by Cristoffer Boe, Reconstruction, which left me with little doubt that Copenhagen must be one of the most heartbreaking cities in the world (meaning, of course, that I had to visit).

The thing about the northern lights is that there are a number of preconditions that need to be met in order to see them: clear skies, distance from any sources of artificial light, the right moon phase (new moon), and the right 11-year sunspot cycle phase (next up in 2013). And even then, there's no guarantee.

"I never look at the forecast," my guide told me. Jan, a forty-something outdoorsman, leads tours around Tromsø, ranging from cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and dog sledding, to northern lights tours. The forecast he was referring to is the University of Alaska's Geophysical Institute Auroral Forecast. Jan is more concerned with clear skies than high tech measurements. His approach, though not rigidly scientific, is based on a lifetime of observation. I chose his tour exactly for this reason: he pursues the lights based on empirical knowledge and is known to change locations more than once in the course of a night to chase better atmospheric conditions. (I was instructed to bring my passport, as he sometimes ends up as far as Finland.)

Nonetheless, I was somewhat disheartened when, on arriving in Tromsø, I discovered that the forecast was a zero for pretty much every day I would be in town (that's zero as in zero activity; the forecast is done on a 9-point scale). And that the weather forecast was equally unfavorable: cloudy and snowy. My best (and only) shot was heading out on Saturday when the activity level was forecasted as a whopping number one. The next day, I would leave Tromsø.

When Jan picked me up in his van at around 7 pm, I had pretty much accepted the prospect of seeing a less-than-spectacular show of lights. The tour out to Ramfjord had other attractive elements to it. Like a roaring fire inside a traditional Sami lavvu (tent). And sitting out on reindeer skins, looking up at the stars. And eating spiced bread and drinking hot chocolate. And meeting travelers from all over the world.

But I was still hoping to see something. Anything, really. Which is why, when we arrived to Ramfjord, and after I geared up in heavy duty arctic gear (a giant, blue, padded onesie; a fur hat with ear flaps, snow boots, and mittens), I felt (and saw) a glimmer of hope: a faint but distinct green streak pulsating gently in the night sky.

Everyone dove for their cameras and snapped photos indiscriminately (lots with flash; later you could hear them cuss in various foreign languages upon discovering they had captured nothing but pitch black). I took one or two shots without flash, ISO at 1600, 15-second shutter speed (the slowest my camera could manage), and was pretty happy with the result: an equally faint but equally distinct green streak across my LCD screen.

Then the lights disappeared. There was nothing. From about 8:30 pm onwards, the sky was black, and the only visible light sources were the stars and the city of Tromsø.

So I trudged back and forth between the warmth of the lavvu and my reindeer skin outside. For ages, it seemed. A shroud of resignation fell over us all. Slowly but surely, more and more people retired to the lavvu until just me and a handful of others were left outside, straining our necks and eyes, trying to will the lights to appear.

It worked. Like freaking magic! The lights came back, faint at first.

And then the entire sky caught fire.

The effect is sometimes described as curtains of color opening and closing. Maybe it's because I tend to channel so many of my emotions into music, but to me, it looked like what the second movement of Beethoven's 7th sounds like. Starts out soft, with just the violas and the cellos carrying the first theme. Then the violins take over the first theme, and the violas and cellos open up a new theme. Then the winds come in and add another layer. And then whole thing just opens up and explodes with rich sound and harmonic texture.

That was my experience of it anyway.

"Very good. Very good." That is all I heard from Jan as we all stood there, mesmerized. Jan hadn't seen a show this good since Christmas time.

We rode back to Tromsø soon after, in reverrential silence. But the skies had more in store.

"Look out the window now," Jan sputtered, and we scrambled to scrape off the ice that had accumulated on the windows inside the van (by about 11 pm, the temperature had dropped to -12 degrees Celsius). He pulled over abruptly when it became clear that we would make little progress on the windows.

We all jumped out and looked up.

The sky was pink. Pink and green. And pulsating. Swirling and twirling around. Where each swirl ended, another began.

"It is one of the best I have ever seen," Jan informed us matter-of-factly. "It's not often you see the other colors." He turned to a Japanese couple on our tour and smiled. "It is a good thing for a couple to see the lights. You will have pretty babies."

According to Wikipedia, "the Sami people believed that one should be particularly careful and quiet when observed by the northern lights (called guovssahasat in Northern Sami). Mocking the northern lights or singing about them was believed to be particularly dangerous and could cause the lights to descend on the mocker and kill him/her."

We certainly weren't quiet. We laughed and cried out with glee, as the colors chased each other across the sky. At one point, Jan turned to me and told me that some mythologies considered the lights to be the energy of dead souls. He also told me that if you high enough in the mountains, you can actually hear them.

Me (like a breathless schoolgirl): What do they sound like?
Jan: Like this...(grabbing me by my sides and howling) OoooooooOOOoooo!

I laughed, and cast my eyes back up.

Tromsø: The Northernmost Brewery in the World

The Mack Bryggeri is located on the Storgata in Tromsø. It is 130 years old and, coincidentally enough, employs 130 workers. Ernie, a Tromsø native in her late thirties, proudly counts her place among the Mack workforce.

"I've been doing the tour for seven years," she boasted, as we all gathered around her at the Ølhallen, the "brew hall" or brew pub across from the brewery where Tromsø natives indulge in freshly pumped Mack beer (Mack pumps its beer through pipes into the Ølhallen storeroom) and lapskaus, a traditional Norwegian stew of beef and potatoes. Clad in knee-high black boots, she led us up a series of steps to the brewery's pub-side entrance.

Ernie looked like what you would expect someone from this part of the world to look like: she had blue eyes like a glaciar, and her permed blond hair spilled out from under a black Ølhallen pub cap. Before letting us into the brewery, she briefed us on Mack brews and the Norwegian people's drinking preferences.

"Norwegian people don't drink bitter beer," she told us quite matter-of-factly. As a result, Mack brews mostly Pilsners and Lagers, tempered to Norwegian tastes (there is no market for wheat beer or ales, apparently). They brew German beers and follow the German purity law: their beers are restricted to malt, hops, and water (nearby arctic water is exceptionally pure). You won't find any cloudberry beers at Mack; no crazy Lambics or Krieks or Belgian-inspired beers either. Mack's brews can be divided into three categories: alcohol-free, normal (3.5-4.5 % alcohol), and strong (6.5 %). Surprise of surprises: the alcohol-free beer is one of Mack's biggest sellers!

Mack also makes an Aquavit, an 80-proof Norwegian liquor that typically accompanies fish during meals (it helps break down the fat). One of the Norwegian's on our tour, an older, white-bearded man with no mustache (lending him an Amish look), had served on the Mack's Aquavit taste-testing team and brought it up. (Lucky him, what a dream job! Here's hoping, Dogfish Head, or Allagash, or Brooklyn brewery.) Ernie bobbed her head in agreement and added, "in Norway, we have this ridiculous alcohol law."

Ridiculous how?

You're not allowed to advertise alcohol in Norway. At all. You won't ever see an alcoholic beverage sponsoir a sports team in Norway. Nor will you be assaulted by Mack or Hansa or even Heineken (a.k.a. international Pilsner king) commercials on Norwegian television (man, I would miss the dancing techno robot).

Even on Mack's website, Ernie explained, they can show pictures of their beers, but they can't discuss them directly; which is to say they can't describe each different beer, how it's made, what dish it's meant to accompany, etc.

"People don't know we have over thirty flavors!" Ernie was livid. "It is a way of cheating us of our culture!" As a mother, she accepted that it was a law meant to "protect the children," but "we have to behave ourselves." Ernie also bartends at the Ølhallen and has seen her fair share of drinking.

"Of course people get drunk. But we can't be blamed for that. People must be responsible."

I wholeheartedly agreed, as, I think, did the entire group; we all grunted and snorted in outrage throughout her diatribe.

Ernie was quick to point out another risk to drinking, besides winding up drunk:

"You know if you don't exercise and you drink too much beer, you get this thing that is called 'love handles.'"

Mack considers itself a very traditional brewery and doesn't export outside of Norway. It is a local operation; they mostly serve the northern regions of the country. In addition to brewing beer, and, you know, for more moneys, their factory also recycles glass and plastic bottles. No cans.

They collect the bottles, send them through a gauntlet of cleaning stages, and then, off to the ultimate test: the "sniffers." These machines "sniff" whether the bottles have anything toxic in them. The "sniffers" can handle anything but diesel: if they catch a whiff of diesel, they shut down, as does production (sometimes for a whole day). My question is, how does diesel end up in a coke bottle in the first place?

We donned smurf-esque blue slippers over our shoes before entering the filtering area, where filtering sleeves and rods with tightly packed metal washers work in conjunction to remove impurities from the beer. Ernie emphasized the importance of removing our protective gear before venturing outside again, as our new smurf feet would likely make us slip and fall:

"You forget, and you go out, and you do the split on the ice. I don't like to do the split."

The filtering room also doubles as the pasteurization room: after the filtering process, Mack pasteurizes its beer at 72 degrees Celsius. As if they didn't do enough before all this! The vats of beer are actually brought down to near freezing level right after fermentation. Ernie explained it's on account of "some soldiers" that just don't want to quit fermenting! (Now every time I drink a particularly fermented beer, I'll envision yeasty soldiers making their way to my tummy.)

Nobody suffered any splits, thankfully, and we all headed back to the Ølhallen for the tasting portion of the tour. We were invited to two different pints of beer on the house: on Ernie's recommendation, I tried the Afterski and the Christmas beer. I can't say I tasted much through my cold; pity, I can't relate the flavors. But both beers went down cold and smooth. And I had a pretty damn good time.

Tromsø: Fun Facts

Norwegian airlines magazine has provided me with some insights to Tromsø, which I noted while on my flight up here.

Tromsø is home to the northernmost univeristy in the world! It is also home to the northernmost brewery in the world, the Mack Brewery. I'll be taking a tour of it this week, so more on that later.

Tromsø has a five-day Latin American festival in March! I'm not sure what a Latin American would be doing in Tromsø, given how fraking far from Latin America it is, but there you have it. Tromsø also hosts a Midnight Sun Marathon in the summer and an active symphony orchestra.

Tromsø has 70,000 inhabitants, but is a vibrant city!

The Northern coast of Alaska is further south than Tromsø.

Now since I'm sick, I've been recovering in my room and resting up so that I can head out and chase the Northern Lights one of these nights. Norwegian television has become my best friend. Please watch the video below, a commercial for Pizza Grandiosa, "uten paprika." You'll understand why I've been so entertained. (Look out for the Norwegian Halling Dance towards the middle: they've replaced the hat with a Grandiosa pizza pie!)

Oslo: A Night in a Hostel

It snowed on and off today, but that didn't stop you from rising early, around 8 am, which is early for vacation, and hopping onto a bus out to the Bygdoy peninsula where you had read you could see the remains of three Viking ships and old Norwegian homes and an exhibit on Sami culture and Norwegian folkdresses. You realize now that this morning you should have chosen to put on your thick wool socks instead of "saving them" for Tromsø. You figured Oslo couldn't be as cold as the Arctic and wore thin, gray cotton socks which have been thoroughly soaked after trudging around in snow and ice and more snow. You thought you might be getting sick this morning but you figured hey I'm only in Oslo for a day I can tough it out and spend the daylight hours outside taking it all in.

But you are sick. All day you've felt the lump in your throat grow more painful and each time you swallow you feel like there's a hole somewhere that keeps getting bigger and bigger and you wish you had something, like a thermos of hot tea or a Ricola to suck on. Your cough has evolved from light to hacking and there are traces of phlegm on your tongue and you want to spit them but that wouldn't be a very polite thing to do on the streets of this clean Scandinavian city. And you can't feel your feet now so you should probably give up and hop on one of those silent, electric-powered trams that will take you back to your hostel where you have had the unbelievable luck of winding up alone in a four-person suite. It's about 4 pm now and you know the sun will set in another hour so you don't feel too bad even though you have to head home before going to the Vigelandsparken where there are a whole lotta statues each depicting a stage of the human life cycle and that just sounds so cool.

When you get back to the hostel you want to ask at the reception if anyone else has checked into your room but you worry about getting phlegm on the guy and anyway your throat is really killing right now. You need a hot shower and a hot cup of tea and a fresh pair of socks. You get to your room and feel unlucky the minute you see a suitcase next to one of the other beds and track marks from shoes that have obviously not been wiped before entering the bedchamber. Or the bathroom, you realize, as you walk in to use the toilet and see that your new roommate has tracked muddy snow onto the white tiles of the suite bathroom. You try not to get upset and decide to take a shower and jump into bed where you can read your collection of Chekhov stories and fall asleep. Sleep is important when you are sick, and anyway you have to wake up at 5:30 am tomorrow to catch your train to Rygge airport to catch your plane to Tromsø. The shower is long and scalding and though your body feels less achy and your feet are finally warm all the congestion has risen to your head and you worry you might have a fever. So you get into bed and read for a while before deciding that you can allow yourself to fall asleep at 8 pm and that way you'll get a good solid 9 hours of sleep and feel much better in the morning.

Your new roommate wakes you when she walks in at 10 pm although you figure you can fall right back to sleep since she's not being loud, she hasn't decided to take a shower, she's simply changed into her pajamas and gotten herself into bed. You turn over onto your side in order to avoid the trickle of mucous out your nose and close your eyes and think about people back home and how you wish one of them could be here and cheer you up because you just feel sick as a dog. And even though you don't want to you think about past lovers as if you didn't already feel bad enough. And then every little detail of everything that has made you worry in the past few months floods your brain until you have to open your eyes in order to escape. You get up and go to the bathroom to use the toilet and drink some water because your throat feels like sandpaper and you look at yourself in the mirror and your eyes are bloodshot and you have crust under and on your nostrils and your lips are chapped.

You head back to bed only your roommate has started snoring and now you are really concerned because you forgot to bring your ear plugs with you, you always do this, you think, why don't you ever learn. You are so sick you should be able to sleep through it you should be able to you should sleep because it's midnight and how did that happen? How is it midnight already? You can only get 5 hours of sleep now and you had better do it otherwise you're going to be miserable tomorrow and you want to enjoy the flight up to Tromsø because you will see glaciers and fjords and all the things you came here to see and enjoy.

She won't stop snoring. You start moaning in bed, softly at first and then loudly hoping that she will hear you and wake up and correct her sleeping position so as to STOP SNORING but it doesn't work. Then you yell out STOP IT very loudly and think you're in trouble now but she actually stops for a moment or two and then is back at it. You reach for your Zune and do it really loudly still hoping that she will wake up because you don't care anymore if you're not getting any sleep because of her why should she get any sleep. You search for your Echos of Nature and you say thank you, thank you Josh for giving you these mp3s back in sophomore year of college when you were having trouble relaxing and the sound of rain falling could make your lower back unclench and salve your mind like a balm. And suddenly you hear your phone make a sound like you just received a text message and you realize that you've actually been sleeping and you look at your phone and it's 4 am. You wonder who the hell could be texting you at 4 am in Norway and why your stupid phone works in this country instead of losing reception and service like it did in Germany and Portugal and Holland. And then you see who texted you and now you really can't sleep because you're back to thinking about old flames and your roommate hasn't stopped snoring and your ears actually hurt a bit because the Zune earbuds are a too big for your earholes. Your nose has also started hemorrhaging and you need to blow it and you can feel the skin between your upper lip and your nostrils getting chapped and irritated and goddamnit how is it possible for someone to snore through the entire night?

You are going to slam that door when you leave at 6 am and you are going to be as loud as you can because this is really unbearable and you can't remember the last time you had such a tortuous night. Only an hour left now.

Bergen: "All Norwegians speak English. You are just lazy."

The other day, I took a ride up the Fløibanen (the Bergen funicular). It takes you up part of Mount Fløyen and boasts some of the best views of the city and its environs. I put on my ski pants, stuffed my day pack with some gear, a sandwich, and a block of Freia chocolate, and set off to do some serious winter hiking.

I was not alone.

Rosy-cheeked teenagers with sleds, whole families armed with poles and cross-country skis, even older couples with their dogs, all squeezed into the funicular for the steep ride up. The Mount Fløyen area is chock-full of trails. In the summer, it's used as a running area; in the winter, XC-skiing and sledding. You can hike year-round.

When I stepped off at the top, I booked it towards the information station/souvenir shop. I wanted to double check which trail would lead me to Mount Ulriken, the longer, more challenging, and more rewarding hike out of Mount Fløyen.

I walked up to the counter, and asked the man behind it if he spoke English.

He looked me up and down with his sea blue eyes, exhaled sharply, and replied:

"All Norwegians speak English. You are just lazy."

I laughed it off with a placating comment, something like, "Yes, you're right. Ha ha ha."

But it got to me. I mean, I am in Norway. I hate to assume that everyone here speaks English when this isn't an English-speaking country. Isn't that insanely presumptuous and arrogant?

I am well aware that Norwegians speak excellent English. Christ, some even sound American.

"It's because nothing is dubbed here. And the Norwegians watch a lot of American telly," I was informed later that day. The informant: Gavin Gillis, a 30-year old Scottish fisherman, stopping through Bergen on his way home to the highlands of Scotland. Gavin and his friend (and colleague), David MacLeod, were both on their first day of leave from work. I ran into them after my hike, once I'd gotten back to the hostel. Too exhausted to get out of my ski pants and warming my hands on an apple-cinnamon-and raisin tea, I'd hunkered down over an old copy of Le Nouvel Observateur. Gav and Dave strode in with multiple brown bags: an assortment of white wines, port, and beer.

I looked up from my reading, smiled, and looked back down.

"D'ya want a bit o' wine, then?" I looked back up, and there stood Gav, proferring a bottle of Australian Chardonnay.

I accepted. First one glass, then another.

Gav and Dave are Scottish fisherman working in Norway (better pay, better benefits). Gav is tall and built like a pickup truck. He is a self-proclaimed skipper, born and bred in the highlands, up past Glasgow. His green eyes, bloodshot on account of early morning drinking ("We're on holiday," he explained), bore holes into my skull while we spoke. I learned that he had a son named Johnny Allen who had turned 3 years old the day before, February 6th. And that he and his son's mother were separated but enjoyed an amicable relationship.

Dave took a bit longer to open up. He observed, first, with warm toffee-colored eyes. Eventually he revealed that he was from the Isle of Skye. Dave has a Master's in Ethnology from the University of Edinborough and had recently quit smoking. The smoking was a big deal. Dave confessed he had been in quite a slump for the past few years: in an abusive relationship with a cheating girlfriend, "not living up to [his] potential," both intellectual and physical (Dave, a though taller than Gav, has a doughier build than his friend). Quitting smoking, he boasted, was something he had done completely on his own. No patch. No support group.

"If I can quit smoking, I can do anything."

Dave and I talked for a long time, with Gav contributing a few comments between cigarette breaks.

Scotland, apparently, makes bank money for the United Kingdom thanks to its revenues from whisky, oil, and tourism. I asked them what they thought about Scottish independence. Gavin, as I had expected, gave a fiery response. Because his ancestors had fought and died for Scotland, he, too, would do the same if need be. Dave offered a surprisingly balanced and humble answer. He said he would likely be in favor of the union with England and Wales, given that Scotland has done alright under this paradigm.

"I would have to learn more about it. It's a difficult question..."

He went on to give a riveting history of the Highland Clearances, the forced displacement of so many Scottish Highlanders in the 18th- and 19th-centuries in order to make the land more profitable for the government and landowners.

"They valued sheep more than people." Dave spoke through now port-stained lips. Though it's as a result of this, he continued, that tourism now thrives in Scotland. The Highland Clearances scattered Scottish people to other parts of the world - especially Canada (e.g. Nova Scotia). Hundreds of years later, their descendents keep returning to Scotland to study their family history, to learn about the old clans.

Dave knows a good deal about the history of Scotland and, in particular, Highland folklore. He dreams, one day, of starting up his own company that will offer tours to descendents of Highlanders. He wants to set his services apart with his expertise in ethnography. His tours will match Scottish descendents up with individuals and families in the highlands. In areas ripe with folk stories and oral tradition. Areas, as of yet, untapped by ethnographers.

Dave shook his head and looked down at the Elderberry beer we were now drinking (a traditional, Scottish beer).

"There are so many stories to tell. And they are dying out."

People paying for his services would not only benefit from a unique travel experience, customized to their ancestral roots. The stories they elicit would then go to the National Archives. These tourists would actively contribute to the preservation of Scottish ethnohistory.

I told him that, like ecotourism, ethnotourism, if implemented responsibly and sustainably, I liked it.

At about 9 pm (I was shocked by how the hours flew by), we decided to head out to an Irish pub around the corner. The night degenerated pretty soon after that. Two Norwegian musicians provided live music: mostly Irish jigs and Scottish songs. And, trust me, you wouldn't have imagined they could be anything but Irish or Scottish had you been outside of Norway.

We made friends with a lovely Irish girl sitting at the bar. Sheelagh, in Bergen on business (of the livestock nutrition variety), promised to try to get me tickets to the next World Equestrian Games in 2010. Which are to be held in Kentucky. I'm really excited.

I met Espen, a tatooed Norwegian with a shaved head and smooth pale skin, who had dropped out of the University because he doesn't like to "produce text." I met Christina, a pool-playing Norwegian I confused for English. I met a man I will call Mr. Viking, as he had a long ponytail of blond hair and a braided chin beard, who twirled me around on the dance floor and then asked very politely if I would like to go home with him (I turned him down). We all drank lots of Hansa. At one point I believe there were 12-14 pints on the bar.

You assume, quite rightly, that I spoke to everyone in English.

Gav told me something else about "the English question" in Norway. When I asked, earlier in the evening, if he and Dave spoke Norwegian, they said no. Dave can actually say a few basic things; Gav, a bit less. But the point is, the Norwegians "don't give you any motivation to learn their language." They all speak English so well, you don't actually need to be able to speak Norwegian. Even, said Gav, after being here for three years.

I don't feel so lazy after all.

Bergen: The Thai Curry House

Okay. I'll come clean.

I haven't technically eaten anything Norwegian since I arrived in Bergen.

No lutefiske, no.

No fiskesuppe, either.

No salmon, smoked or otherwise (interesting to note: apparently, here in Norway, fresh smoked just means fresh).

No cod, or as it's known, "beef of the sea."

I tried some Norwegian chocolate. Well, lots. Freia is the most ubiquitous brand, peddling their own take on Kit-Kats which I quite like, as well as the garden variety chocolate in bar form: melkesjokolade (milk chocolate), nut, fruit and nut, and aero. The melkesjokolade is wrapped in alluring gold paper. It came highly recommended by a Scotsman passing through my hostel. It did not disappoint.

I took a massive block of the aero variety on my hike up Mount Fløyen - I think, sometimes, I hike to eat and not the other way around. Each piece is imprinted with a motif composed of different words and images. My favorite motif: the word "Cow! Cow! Cow!" spelled out repeatedly and framing the image of a cow holding a guitar.

I tried Hansa, a cheap Norwegian beer. More pints than I care to remember (more on that later).

That same unfortunate Hansa night, I gave into 4 am munchies and (I'm not proud of this) bought a ham-and-cheese calzone from 7-Eleven. I don't really want to consider the amount of preservatives that I ingested for the sake of a doughy and delicious fix; I'll simply chalk my folly up to the Hansa. Damn that Hansa.

I ate very well at a charming coffee shop/pancake house called "Capello" on Skostredet. The place is decorated with all sorts of old Americana: vinyl record players, signs, postcards, and an antique cash register. I ordered a spinach-feta-and tomato pancake and a strawberry milkshake. The pancake, served with chili-sprinkled sour cream, was a bit thicker than a crêpe and perfectly cooked. The milkshake, so creamy I had to use a spoon to eat most of it.

But the best food I've had wasn't in any guide book I read. I discovered it my first night, wandering around the streets near my hostel, Jacob's Dorms (cheap, clean, and comfortable - I highly recommend).

The Thai Curry House, on Nedre Korskirkeallmenningen near the Torget.

A small place, seating no more than twenty customers at any given moment. The decor is on the kitschy side: bamboo stalks line the main window by the entrance, while the ceiling and walls are crawling with fake green vines. The waitress (yes, there's only one) is a young Asian woman with a mouthful of braces. I assumed she was Thai, but since I don't speak any Thai or Norwegian, it's difficult for me to pinpoint her precise origin. The chef: miraculous.

So far, I've sampled three of their dishes. The red curry, served with tender morsels of chicken, is as rich in flavor as it is in texture and color. The green curry, with veggies, surpasses the red curry only with its welcome addition of spiciness (in its defense, the red curry is not meant to be spicy).

But the best dish is a dish I will dream of for the duration of time I have left before returning to Boston. (St. E. is sorely lacking in non-French food; the only Indian restaurant I've found, so far, has an "indian" mannequin set out front as a promotional tool - a "Native American indian.")

As I wallow in French food, deprived of any ethnic dishes, I will remember that I ate the best Tom Yum soup of my life at the Thai Curry House in Bergen. A fragrant concoction that seamlessly blended the silkiest of broths with red chilis, chicken, oyster mushrooms, aromatic lemongrass, and ginger.

Spice, in Harvard Square, could learn a thing or too from the Thai Curry House.

Bergen: Notes, First Day

First day in Bergen.

Why are there so many 7-Elevens here? Strange.

Wow, there's an Ole Bull Plaza! And there's Ole Bull himself in statue form, fiddle and all. Some sort of real musician set up next to statue. Fitting. Perhaps organ grinder? Has drawn a huddle of shifty-looking men. Unshaved, unkempt. Discussing loudly in foreign language that is recognizably not Norwegian. I want to have a closer look but am scared off by packs of men congregating on the street. What if they say something?

I can't read Norwegian. Is there such a thing as a Rhododendarium? I think that's what I'm looking at right now. It looks like a large pond. Frozen over, though. Am next to the Grieghallen and Grieg Academy. There are so many birds on the ice. Aren't they freezing? Maybe they are seasonally confused. Perhaps they are special Bergen ice-fishing birds. But it look like they're just squatting on the ice. Chilling. These birds are confused.

Bryggen is lovely. Medieval architecture. Simple, wood panel contruction. Houses are painted yellow, green, red, and brown. Triangular roof structure on account of the precipitation. So much rain and snow. Someone told me Bergen is the rainiest city in Europe.

The Torget is smaller than I expected. (Had envisioned rows and rows of wall-to-wall fish!) Fish markets smell something fierce. I've never tasted monkfish, but I saw some, and it doesn't look like a fish. The fish man I spoke with told me it is delicious if you just fry it up with some butter.

Everyone speaks English.

I found Rosenkrantz Tower, but can't get in. Wandered around some. Fortress feels anticlimactic. Walked up to one door after another to try to get in.

There's a woman belting out "All That Jazz!" With a full band backing her up!! Live music I think. So weird. "Chicago" in a Norwegian castle?

Saw some military men and am freaked out about what feels like sneaking around.

Got into Rosenkrantz! Saw two ladies walk into a door at the bottom of the tower and went in behind them. Tour group, apparently. About 15 people. Tour guide speaking in Norwegian, I think. Honestly he could just as easily be speaking Swedish or Danish, for all I know. Definitely not Finnish, though. Dunno why I know this, just do.

Much neater on the inside. I don't understand a word coming out of the guide's mouth, but when he looks my way I smile and nod my head.

Good thing there are English signs in every room of the building.

Floors are connected by narrow and steep stairwells. All stone. Stone is cool and grainy when I touch it.

Palimpsest. Casle was built-on and built-on over hundreds of years. This is what I can gauge from the guide's gestures in front of a wooden model. (He keeps adding and layering pieces to it, then pausing to explain.)

The National and Urban code were signed here. Very important. (?) Apparently influenced by Roman law. My favorite bit:

"Now the fact of the matter is that none of us may steal from one another." Except that if your life depended on it (like, you had no work, no food), THEN your actions "deserved no chastisement." Surprisingly tempered view.

I think Tvybulken might mean stealing.

Also, King Haksen gave Henry III a polar bear! September of 1252. Sign doesn't say what Henry did with the polar bear after parading it around the streets of London.

Can see some fjords from the top of the tower. Cannot wait to go hiking.

Shit. Guide just said something re: Rosenkrantz and Shakespeare. Hamlet? Guildenstern? What was it??

Explore cloudberries.

Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse?

It is a sad fact that the older we get, the less birthdays seem to matter. Yes, there are a few benchmark birthdays that get people's attention. Turning eighty, for instance, seems to be worthy of note. At fifty, we officially arrive at "middle age." Thirty, we leave behind our youthful, jubilant twenties, and society at last concedes us some measure of maturity.

But, let's be honest. Few of us have or will celebrate these birthdays with the same excitement as when we turn ten (double digits!) or sixteen (driver's license!) or eighteen (emancipation!). The "important" birthdays culminate, at least for Americans, with the big two-one: at last, we can drink. Legally. In our culture, it is the last of the rewarded birthdays (I don't count renting a car at twenty-five as substantial birthday recognition).

I've watched friends and relatives age, many dreading the accumulation of years and acquiring a certain "age touchiness." (How old am I? How old do I look to you?! How old do you think I am???)

Others are just indifferent to the passage of time.

Both, to me, are travesties.

I made my first birthday resolution the year I turned twenty-one.

I was living in Buenos Aires at the time and had an American friend named Robert who was four years my senior. Robert turned twenty-five a couple of months before me and promptly launched into a deep depression. He warned me of the fate in store, speaking with reverence about the years spanning twenty-one to twenty-four, until:

"One day, you're twenty-five. And then you're thirty. And forty. And suddenly you realize you can't see your knees because of how fat you've gotten, and you're married to a woman who cuts her hair shorter than yours and lives in sweatpants." (Rob was drawing on the example of his parents, who, I think, had long deprived him of any hope of aging gracefully.)

I told Rob to snap out of it and stop being such a psycho. I resolved to be the anti-Rob.

Yes, I know getting old is scary. I feel it too. But come on! Everybody poops. Everybody gets old, too. I don't want to be one of those tortured souls who agonizes over the inevitable. Nor do I want to make believe the years aren't flying by.

Which is why, last year, on my own twenty-fifth birthday, I made my second birthday resolution: that I would honor each year by challenging myself to do something, well, challenging. Something that would both humble me and honor my strengths, reminding me that, no matter what my age, I am (and always will be) me.

Last year, I ran twelve miles on my birthday, a record distance (for me) and a feat I reveled in for days.

This past Thursday, on my birthday, I headed north on a solo trip to the "gateway of the fjords:" the city of Bergen, in Norway.

Not many people travel to Scandinavia in the winter. That was part of the draw. To spend sixteen days traveling alone, first through Norway, then to Stockholm and wrapping up in Copenhagen, seemed a good way to honor my step into "late twenties." And to see a completely unfamiliar part of the world, both geographically and linguistically, while I'm at it.

I awoke, on my birthday, at 3 am, to a call from my mother, wishing me the best, and reinforcing what my reveille was poised to do at the very same moment: sound the alarm rise and shine, it's travel time. I showered. Forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal. Unplugged my frigo, shut off my power strip, loaded up my pack, and set off for the half-hour walk (no tram at this ungodly hour) to the Chateaucreux train station.

St. E., as you know, is not a big city. Walking its streets at 4 am on a Thursday, I was reminded of this. The whole way to Chateaucreux, I must have seen no more than three people. All men. One intoxicated, as his choppy, uneven gait indicated.

St. E. is also, normally, not an especially windy city. This morning, however, a strong, cool wind blew through the streets, whipping my wet hair this way and that. Gusty currents tugged at items strewn about on the deserted streets. Dead leaves were pulled by the undertow over the length of entire blocks. Lion Candy Bar wrappers rose mid-air from the gutters. A plastic garbage can, left out for trash day, had been knocked over onto its side. The wind opened and closed its lid like a puppetmaster pulling strings to breathe life into an inert object. (This garbage can is speaking to me, I thought in my drowsy state. Something about the wind and the barren town pointed to a greater message, an omen, maybe. I have more than a few superstitious bones in my body.)

Ominous atmosphere aside, I made it to my bus on time and embarked on the very long (and multi-legged) first part of my journey.

My itinerary looked like this:
1. Bus from St. E. to Lyon Part Dieu
2. TGV from Lyon Part Dieu to Paris Gare de Lyon
3. Metro from Paris Gare de Lyon to Denfert-Rochereau stop
4. Bus from Denfert-Rochereau to Orly Airport
5. Plane from Paris Orly Airport to Bergen Airport

I felt pretty good boarding my plane a whole seven hours later. I took in every detail: the bright red color of the Norwegian Airlines plane, smooth-skinned and youthful air hostesses, their cheerful welcomes. ("Hi!" is, apparently, "Hi!" in Norwegian. One of the only words I can understand.)

And, of course, the signs on the carry-on bins, reading Unnskyld, har dere hørt om videokonferanse? (My God what a magical language.)

The Norwegian Airlines Magazine had a feature entitled "Norwegian Masters." This was, quite possibly, my favorite part of flying to Norway.

"We all have our heroes - so do Norwegian. You'll find them on the tail fins of 15 of our airplanes."

Among the "Norwegian Masters" were such stars as polar explorer Roald Amundsen, skater and U.S. film star Sonja Henie, playright Henrik Ibsen, painter Edvard Munch, and composer Edvard Grieg.

Then there were the masters previously unknown to me. One by the curious name of Ole Bull (1819-1880) - "He is often referred to as Norway's first international star. He was a violinist and composer in the Romantic period and through his over interest for Norwegian folk music, he represented a central part in the re-building of the Norwegian culture after the union Denmark-Norway was dissolved."

The latter sentence prompted me to consider how much I don't know about Norway. (Denmark-and Norway were united?!)

I smiled and scooted closer to the window, anxious to learn.

Happy Birthday...over, and over, and over, and over again...

Last week, in anticipation of my 26th birthday, I made a pact with Kim.

"We're gonna celebrate every night that I have left as a 25-year-old."

She put up zero resistance.

After all, me "celebrating" my birthday night after night meant that she, too, would be celebrating. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional week-long bacchanalia?

We began Wednesday night at the Dirty, gulping down Snakebites as we played drinking games with the pack of cards Morgan managed to score from the bartender.

A pack of Tarot cards.

First, I taught them how to play one of my favorite childhood card games, Culo Sucio (Dirty Ass in English). Essentially, I explained with animation as I had, by then, already been topped off for the third time, we leave one Joker in the deck, distribute all the cards, and discard them as we accumulate pairs. One player draws a card from his neighbor, and around and around we go until only the Joker remains - in the hands of the unfortunate player who is henceforth dubbed "el culo sucio." When I used to play this game with my father, he insisted on maintaining a roll of toilet paper at the table in order to give the "dirty ass" his or her due - "Anda a limpiarte el culo," go wipe your ass, he would exclaim to peals of laughter from all players save the poor, mortified "culo sucio."

After my detailed explanation, Kim deadpanned:

"Katie. That game is called Old Maid. It exists in the U.S. too. It's the lamest card game in the world."

Feeling just a bit deflated, I nonetheless insisted that we had to, HAD TO play it.

Which we did. For about three rounds, all of which Kim lost (Kim, as it turns out, has a fierce competitive streak hidden behind that doe-eyed goodness of hers).

After that, the night exists only in bits and pieces.

We played Ride the Bus, a brilliant suggestion of Kim's. Morgan and I squared off while Kim observed, horrified either by our butchering of the game or our extreme consumption of alcohol (likely both).

Then I attempted to teach Morgan a hand-slapping game.

One, two, three

My momma takes care of me

Ooo, ahhh

Wanna piece of pie

Pie too sweet

Wanna piece of meat

Meat too tough

Wanna ride a bus

Bus too full

Wanna ride a bull...

The night led us to la Mine (the Mine), the most happening non-techno club in St. E. It is appropriately named, as you have to climb down a set of dark and vertiginous stairs into a basement to enter (also, St. E. is, or at least was, a mining town).

Dancing ensued. Among the fifteen people out at la Mine at 2 am on a Wednesday. One of whom, quite magically, turned out to be Nico, a bartender at...you guessed it. The Dirty! Nico is a native stéphanois who "knows people," including the resident DJ at la Mine who is actually a Smiths fan and played "This Charming Man" on my request. Nico and I danced like teenagers (awkwardly but furiously), and I managed to avoid the usual embarassing music-related commentary (e.g. "I wanna DJ my own wedding!").

Friday night, we drank in (what else) my birthday at Kim's apartment in what turned out to be the most memorable night of crazy yet.

The company: 3 parts American (me, Kim, and Corinne), 3 parts French (Mathilde, Jean, and Morgan), and 1 part German (Ilka).

The drinking event: a power hour using a Snakebite-inspired concoction, not beer.

The power hour is a treacherous drinking game. Minutes stretch into hours, you lose track of your shot count and wind up drinking double or triple. Neither the Frenchies nor the Germans had ever seen, let alone done, anything like it before (oh, American drinking culture, be still my heart, by strong my liver). But Math, well, Math was the star.

After seven minutes: Yous a slut beach! (her attempt at "slut bitch")

After eleven minutes: Putain! Ça fait combien d'heures qu'on joue ce jeu? (Fuck! How many hours have we been playing this game?)

After twenty-six minutes: (singing and playing the guitar)

Mr. Jones and me tell each other future.

We steer at ze beautiful womens.

She lookin' at you?

Ay, nah nah, I don't fink so, she lookin' at me.

Ladies and gentlement, I give you the Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones," covered by Mathilde Grand.

That night ended, once more, at la Mine. With a brief stop at the Dirty because, well, it's become a compulsion.

Finally, on Monday night, I was surpised with the birthday cake of my dreams. Corinne baked me one of the most magnificent and truly personalized cakes I've had the pleasure of devouring in my adult life. If you want more details on how it was prepared, check out her blog.

Yes, what's that you see on top? Nothing other than Kinder Buenos! The crispy wafer, chocolate-covered, hazelnut-filled candy bar that haunts my thoughts when they turn to chocolate.

And that frosting? Could it be? Well, yes, it's clearly chocolate. But what sort of chocolate, you might inquire. There's chocolate and then there's chocolate. Corinne made her ganache frosting out of Lindt milk chocolate. Only the finest (in my opinion) milk chocolate in the world.

The ganache also served as filling to the cake, yellow cake to be precise, found underneath the blanket of milk chocolate. Moist and dense, the perfect consistency.