 |
| Here we are, enjoying a delicious late night snack with our friends Mariann (white sweater) and Morten (standing, left) and their family (my dad is standing, maroon sweatshirt; I am taking the photo). Yes, it is really night, probably around 10:00, in August. It was a memorable evening. |
One of the few trips abroad I have taken that was not to Latin America was with my father a few years ago to Norway. This had been a dream of his for decades – to visit the place where his grandfather was born. The trip was pretty spectacular. I have good friends who live fairly close to Oslo, on a gorgeous farm that has been in their family for centuries. It was our “home base,” a central place where we could rest, plan and return to after traveling. Morten and Mariann were amazing hosts, entertaining us, feeding us delicious food, helping us with travel plans, and showing us around their beautiful town and surrounding area.
Additionally, we were able to meet some distant relatives in Trondheim, probably third (or so) cousins. Not only did we meet them, but we stayed with them and spent a few days talking about our family tree, visiting distant family gravesites, traveling to the house my great-grandfather lived in before he left for the United States, and drinking Norwegian beer. So this was also an incredible part of our trip. It meant a lot to my dad to be able to do those things, and connect with his roots. It did to me, too.
 |
| My dad and I, standing in front of the house my great-grandfather lived in near Trondheim before he came to the U.S. It has been empty for years. |
The last part of our trip, before we returned to Morten and Mariann’s farm and then home, was to the west coast of Norway, to the lovely city of Bergen. There we had no personal connections, no friends, no long lost relatives to visit. We just wandered the city, took the Fløibanen Funicular up the mountain, ate good food, listened to the street musicians perform, visited some great museums, and enjoyed really creamy ice cream. We also lucked out and had sunny days the whole time we were there, an unheard of occurrence in the rainiest city in Norway.
For the return trip to my friends’, we planned to take the train from Bergen to a town near their home. They had encouraged us to make a stop along the way and take the Flåm Railway down to the village of Flåm because it was a lovely trip, on an interesting and historic train (one of the steepest in the world) with beautiful views. We had already experienced the train system in Norway earlier in our stay. The trains were convenient, very modern, clean, technologically superior to those in the U.S., and a wonderful way to travel. One of the nice things about taking the train was we didn’t have to worry too much about where we were arriving or where to disembark. As we approached each station stop, the conductor would get on a loud speaker, announce the station – in several languages no less – and tell us on which side to disembark. Piece of krumkake.
Until it wasn’t. A piece of krumkake that is. For some reason, on that train ride from Bergen to Myrdal (where we would catch the Flåm Railway) the conductor didn’t do this, at least not at the stop we needed. So we thought we were at the right station, but we weren’t sure (until other passengers confirmed that we were indeed in Myrdal). Then, as we pulled to a stop, the conductor also failed to tell us which side we should exit on. And when the doors on the right were the only ones to open, on the side where there was no platform, what were we to do? We were standing there, with our luggage, and the only door to let us out was at least five feet off the ground, next to a gravel covered slope. This is where we were supposed to exit? We feared the train would pull away and we would miss our chance to see Flåm and the tunnels, and the waterfalls, and the fjord if we didn’t get off the train. So I told my dad, “We have to get out!” And then he threw his suitcase off the train, and jumped. He jumped down, landed on the gravel, fell down, and somehow managed to not roll down the hill.
As soon as he did all this, the door on the other side slid open and there was the platform, on the side of the train facing the depot, level with where the rest of us were standing inside the train. Otherwise known as the correct door. What I remember is mild chaos and veiled panic on my part. However, my dad was quickly back on his feet, not hurt in any way, and someone helped him get his suitcase back on the train. Being six foot two inches made it possible for him to get back up into the train, with the aid of a strong Norwegian (as if there were any other kind). We exited on the correct side, walking out onto the platform without having to jump. But I was very worried because my dad had just had both knees replaced the summer before. And he had just jumped off a train! I am sure I would’ve followed him had that door not opened in that instant, and I would not have fared as well since I do not have joints made of titanium.
At the Myrdal depot, as we were waiting for the Flåm train to arrive to take us down to the fjord, and after many “Dad, are you sure you're okays,” I decided to speak to someone. I went up to the window at the train depot, and spoke with the young, pleasant woman behind the counter, who, of course, knew English. I said, “Hi. I don’t know how you are here in Norway, but I’m from America and we like to complain.” And then I proceeded to tell her what had happened, and that the conductor had not said where we were, which side to disembark on, nor had he opened the correct doors at first. “See that old man over there? That’s my dad. He just had knee surgery last year, on both knees, and yes, his knees are new, but he is old. Look at him! And he jumped from a train. He jumped from a train! I just thought someone should know.” So I got that off my chest and felt the mishap was at least acknowledged since she confirmed that it was standard practice for the conductors to announce both the train station and which side to exit on. My dad really was fine. And the trip down to the fjord was beautiful. Now it is one of my dad’s favorite stories to tell people. Only I think he may tell people that I pushed him. But hopefully they know he is just embellishing for dramatic effect.
 |
| Here I am standing in Flåm in front of the Aurlands fjord. Was this view worth all the drama? Yawh, you betchya! |
Another time when I was traveling with someone, we ran into Latin American friendliness that presented itself in the form of severe miscommunication. My friend Monica and I were in Oaxaca, Mexico and had planned a day trip to see the ruins at Monte Alban. We were told we could take a bus from some hotel that was located near the market. So we walked and walked to where we thought it was based on what we had seen on a map. But no hotel. So we asked a bus driver on a city bus, and he told us his bus would take us there. So we got on his bus, and ended up at some other market where the other bus should be. But no bus. And the city bus was gone. We then asked a taxi driver and he again referred to the hotel and pointed in the direction from where we had just come. We were sick of walking, and spending so much time searching, so we had him take us. And there were the buses for Monte Alban. At the hotel. But we wondered why the city bus driver had told us to go to the other market. It was totally incorrect information. It wasn’t even sort of correct. It was a complete detour. And I just don’t think a 5¢ bus fare would be enough inspiration to lead us on a wild goose chase. So I attributed it to the friendliness of the people. I had run into this before – people in Latin America are so friendly that they don’t want to tell you “I don’t know.” They don’t want to leave you without any information, so instead they guess and tell you something rather than nothing. Even if nothing would be way better.
The point is, whether you know the local language or not, whether they know your language or not, sometimes there is a lack of communication that can cause delays or problems. But you have to remember that this happens at home, too, in your own neighborhood, with your own friends and family. It’s just a human thing and doesn’t necessarily have to be chalked up to some kind of cultural difference or language barrier. It can be frustrating at the time. It can become stressful and worry you. But if you’re lucky, the experience will become a funny travel story you can share with others, maybe even for years to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment