Bacchanalia of the troll-man
On May 17, 1814, in the tiny town of Eidsvoll near Oslo, the first Norwegian parliamentarians signed the state Constitution: Norway freed itself from four hundred years of Danish rule. Since then, May 17 has become a national holiday.
On this day, many city dwellers head to the islands of the Oslo Fjord, where they wander through pine forests, climb into rocky caves on the coast, sunbathe on the beach, play volleyball and tennis, sleep in tents, grill sausages over coals, and hide a basket of provisions from wild rabbits. Thousands of people in national costumes with gold buckles take to the streets. Children hold a festive procession along the central street Karl Johans Gate, which "pierces" the city, starting prosaically at the Central Station and ending festively at the Royal Palace.
Members of the august family greet the rejoicing children from the balcony of their residence. Norwegian school graduates, the "Russ", celebrate Independence Day in a special way. Dressed in colorful jumpsuits, the "Russ" create chaos – they scare passersby and pets, drive around city streets in bright red vans with immoral inscriptions. Conservatively minded Norwegians prefer not to leave home at this time. They might be knocked down or doused with glue!
The "Russ" stock up in advance on personal business cards with photos and openly bold descriptions such as: "Inge, the most uninhibited girl in the class" or "Johan, the troll-man." However, the festive bacchanalia for the "Russ" begins as early as May 1.
Wild teenagers in red and blue jumpsuits covered with erotic stickers shock innocent citizens: they kiss passersby and police officers, shave their legs in central fountains, run naked along the highway. In the evening, they gather at a jazz concert in the club Bla, which is housed in an old factory building from the mid-19th century.
If you walk around the club building, you will find an impressive wall painted by street artists. Here is a riot of imagination: devils ride bicycles, the Loch Ness monster attacks a frightened-to-death nudist, and chess players swallow pawns like nuts. And it is not at all about the amount of alcohol drunk.
Norwegian London
A rapid train carries you westward. From Oslo to Bergen. Bergen captivates. Once caught in its web, you are immersed in the atmosphere of the late Middle Ages. Neatly painted in bright colors, cottages cascade from mountain peaks down to the coast shrouded in a light haze, forming geometrically regular shapes like honeycombs. Like Rome and Lisbon, Bergen lies among seven hills in a secluded basin open to the sea.
The mountains surrounding the city on all sides hold back clouds, so it is always damp here. Unsurprisingly, Bergen has earned the status of "Norwegian London." Ten sunny days a year, and the rest of the time it rains without stopping, and fog seeps into the cracked hulls of salted schooners, into the curved glass vessels that stand in shop windows and lure tourists. That is when the city streets fall completely under the power of trolls, who under the cover of thick fog do unimaginable things here. It happens that strong whirlwinds snatch umbrellas from hands and tear raincoats off passersby.
Wandering through the narrow streets of the city, inhaling the sea air mixed with the tart aromas of coffee, cigars, and roasted hazelnuts, and buying cotton trolls in souvenir shops – you will, in the end, still come out to the colorful fish market, located in the charming harbor of Vågen. This is the main gastronomic attraction in the city. Every morning at dawn, like phantoms, seafood sellers appear on the market square. Your eyes run wild at the variety: countless battalions of crustaceans locked in a death grip stare at you from the stalls. Sprats swim in steel boxes and buckets or sadly gaze at you from under the knife. There is a countless number of fish. True, there are no bighead carp and rudd here – and you have to come to terms with that.
Bergen was founded in 1070 by the Viking prince Olaf Kyrre ("Olaf the Peaceful"), who often went on campaigns to Western Europe and even reached, if legend is to be believed, North America. In the 12th-13th centuries, Bergen was the Norwegian capital and the permanent residence of monarchs.
The city stretches along the coast of the North Sea, so for many centuries foreign ships entered the city harbor daily. The Scots brought high-quality wool and bitter whiskey, the Germans – grain and flour, the Dutch – silk and butter, and the English brought the plague here in the 16th century.
Norwegians with a touch of irony call Bergen residents the most pure-blooded representatives of the nation: not all merchants returned home, seduced by the charm of northern maidens... Unsurprisingly, Bergen residents speak a special dialect, with a burr. Moreover, it is believed that Bergen has the most attractive girls. The expression Jenta fra Bergen ("girl from Bergen") is firmly rooted in the Norwegian language. It is not just a phrase. It is a compliment.
Bergen is multifaceted, and therefore has many definitions: "gateway to the kingdom of fjords," "musical capital of Norway," "second largest city," "Hanseatic port," "the most picturesque corner of the country," "birthplace of Edvard Grieg," "the rainiest city in Europe." All of this is true.
If you abstract yourself from the established definitions and look at Bergen from the observation deck at the top of Mount Fløyen, it turns out that the city resembles a giant lobster with outstretched claws. From a height of 320 meters above sea level, a splendid view opens onto the city, the nearby fjords, and the islands of the North Sea. You can make out each house individually, the lake around which you just wandered, the seafood stalls on the market square, the two towers of St. Mary's Church, students kissing on benches, an old woman on a bicycle, a child on a scooter.
Among the architectural structures, the strange building of the Edvard Grieg Concert Hall stands out, shaped like a grand piano with a fanciful stack of accordion-folded sheet music pages on its roof. Near the observation deck there is a small restaurant with an open terrace and a good souvenir shop, next to which stands a huge troll. If you climb onto his arms and take a photo, you'll get wonderful shots. Very close by is a vast coniferous forest with quiet alleys and secluded paths that are lovely to stroll along. The main thing is not to lose track of time on the shore of the lake and not to miss the last car at 11 p.m. Otherwise, you'll have to go down the mountain on your own, but that is terribly romantic.