Danny & Pork Chop Go Scandinavian Day 8: Medieval Orgasms, Museums & A World Heritage Site
Pork Chop and I arrive in Norway as the sun begins to hang low in the sky. Waves of golden light illuminated the snow and dripping icicles that dangle their toes off the edges of buildings. It's like I've stepped out of reality and into a fantasy land. We're staying in a place about a five-minute walk from the central station. History drenches every inch of the city. I'm kicking myself that I only have three days here when there's so much to see. Slush fills the pavement and I'm forced to carry my bag with Pork Chop riding in my pocket. He bounces with joy as we climb the steps into the hotel.
After the journey, I'm not in the mood to do much but have dinner and relax to a documentary. The room is large, equipped with its own little kitchen area. I could get used to this. And best of all it was really affordable. The view from the room was incredible. I could watch the sunset between the snow-covered mountains...my inner pervert here could make a crude reference, but I want this to be a different kind of blog, so I'm just gonna have to silence that little bugger and let it go. (God, it's so hard to not make that comment.) Pork Chop and I snuggle in with some chicken nuggets and chips, excited for what tomorrow will bring.
I'm awake early, earlier than I probably should be and put the coffee on. I'm ready to get out and explore, but I feel the city sleeping around me. The sun is just starting to peek out from its nightly hiding place. I've got a list of places I want to see today. There are so many more that I want to see but aren't open yet, I'm going to have to come back in the autumn when they open. There are so many opportunities for education here. I feel my familiar shyness threatening me; whispering to me that we should just hide in the room. I've done that too many times and I'm not about to squander this opportunity; I've wasted enough of them.
I wander down the slushy streets, trying not to fall on my ass. Again, doesn't anyone shovel the pavement around here? The sky reminds me of early summer, but the frost settling in the trees reminds me that it's mid-February. It's actually not that cold actually. The first place that I want to shoot is being under renovations, but I can get a few decent shots. To the city's credit, they put this kind of robe over the church tower that looks like it. It's pretty inventive to tell you the truth. I love the medieval architecture here. I feel like a proper adventurer. I walk out into what I like to call the city square and take a look out across the Bergen harbour. It's gorgeous. Shops line both sides of the harbour. In the distance, a church catches my eye I know I have to shoot there. That's interesting; despite my atheism doubt in faith and loathing for organised religion, I love churches and cathedrals. I love the architecture and the history of them. Get a hard-on for history kids. Learn all about it. It won't betray you. It won't tell you that you're fat or want you to meet its parents. It won't get you hooked on other things, well maybe archaeology and palaeontology, but those two things are far better than low-budget strippers and cocaine...though probably just as expensive.
It's too early for other things to be open and I didn't do my research on what's being renovated because I was too focused on just getting the fuck away from everything at home, so I decide to wander about, taking pictures. Some of the shots I've taken have been pretty good. I could sell these. Or try to sell these. I decide to indulge the tortured artist in me and take shots all around the city. To my left I see this massive, red cathedral looming over the harbour and I know I have to go there. I have to see it up close. I have to touch it. I have to taste it. I have to-wow, that sounds weirdly sexual, but I promise it isn't! I don't have some sort of cathedral fetish...though I might, you never know.
I take photos of still life around Bergen, just wanting to capture every moment that I can for later. Sometimes my memory is the worst and I can't remember fuck all, but this I want to hold close. I feel okay here, like I almost sort of fit. No one here knows me. I'm a complete stranger. I can do anything I want. I can be anything that I want. My mind circles back to the complete stranger notion. I am a complete stranger. Do I even know me? Who am I? I look at my reflection in the puddles. An ugly twat in a beanie hat covered in poor decisions stares back at me. He's got sad eyes. A mouth stained with corruption. I almost walk out into traffic because I'm debating what I am and who I am with myself. (I don't need another repeat of what happened in Leipzig in 2012..thought I really want to go back there. I've got such a hard-you know what? Let's focus on Bergen for now.)
The hill that the cathedral sits on is massive. I knew this was the city of the 7 mountains, but Jesus fuck. I feel like Moses as I take on the hill, climbing the steps slowly and carefully, not wanting to slip on the ice and crack my head open. Though, admittedly, I think it would be a nice vacation for my brain. The trauma of everything might cause it to focus on something other than my suicidal depression. I worry as I climb that I will slip and then everyone will point and laugh at me. I won't be able to survive the humiliation. I'll die of shame in a puddle of my own urine on an icy staircase. That's not the way I envisioned myself going.
After about 3 minutes, which actually feels like an eternity with all the overthinking going on, I reach the top of the hill and breathe in the cathedral. The colour still strikes me. Why the hell would anyone paint it red? What made the painters think "boy red is a great colour for this!"? I don't think I had this place on my list, but I'm glad I saw it. I don't always plan everything out. I like to wander around and shoot the things that catch my eye. Adventure is good. It helps me to work on my anxiety. I walk closer, across the courtyard and realise just how massive this building is. I can't get it all in my shot up close. I take photos from several different angles. For a moment I'm like the Nigel Barker of buildings; I don't care that locals are watching me crouch and dart about, trying out different depths and playing with the light.
I get up close and the building looms over me. I feel haunted. The colour appears evil up close. I'm not about to fuck with this, so I scamper off to explore a bit before the museum that I want to open. I head down the left side of the street, not wanting to have to tackle the staircase again. There has to be another way down. A few blocks down I see there is another way to get down...a fucking steep incline. I should have just braved the stairs. I'm even more scared of falling on my ass here. This is like walking on an acute angle. I take more pictures of the mountains, older buildings and neat little shops as I walk at a snail's pace down the incline. There are so many churches here. I've only been walking an hour and I've already seen 4 of them and there are one or two others on my list. Why are there so many? What if they're not actually there and I'm hallucinating?
I make my way in a circle, heading back towards the harbour so that I can go to the museum. I expect it to take a little longer than it does because I'm stopping to look at everything and take photos. I get there with 15 minutes to spare. I don't want to stand around looking like a jack-off, especially since there's no one else around. I glance around. It's dead. There's not a soul in sight. Nor are there any footprints in the fresh snow. The thought of 'this is a fucking ghost town' drifts into my head. I have to talk myself down. 'Let's get a grip, Daniel. You saw a few people earlier...you were basically stalking that couple by the theatre, remember?' But another voice from inside me whispers back, "You could have imagined them out of boredom. Or they could have been ghosts. How many people have you actually interacted with here?" I'm working myself into a near panic attack, although I really don't believe in ghosts. I need to do something. St. Mary's is only a few metres away. I can go there and shoot the courtyard and the exterior of the church. I'd love to be able to do the inside, but it's not allowed. Services still run in the church in both Norwegian and English. I think that's lovely. I'm tempted to check it out, but I know full well that if I walk into it, that building will collapse. I rarely go into the churches I shoot for that very reason. I don't feel welcome in them. I don't feel like I belong. I don't feel guilty or anything, it just feels wrong of me to be there.
This is great. I love the little graveyard in the church. It whispers to me. And I grin known I will never be rotting away in the ground. Nope, not me. I won't be having worms gnaw through my asshole. I'm going into the giant Easy Bake oven and will be burnt to shit, just like the chicken on your grandmother's BBQ. Then the ashes will be swept into a Diet Coke can and thrown into a landfill. I just want one thing engraved on the can, or maybe just like have a note taped to it that reads: introvert, sadomasochist, mindfucker. That's fitting. I'm garbage, so it only is fitting that I end up with the garbage. It's not like anyone would want my ashes hanging around. What does anyone actually do with ashes anyway? You know, I saw this special where this woman was eating her dead mother's ashes? If that doesn't scream mental imbalance, I don't know what does.
This place was built in 1180. I'm in awe. I'm seeing history here. It's beautiful. And it still looks magnificent. I hope I look this good in 10 years, never mind the hundreds of years this place has been around. I think of all the people who have been here; all those that have lived and died here. All the things that have happened here. If I wasn't thinking about my death and worms eating people, I'd be humbled by everything that happened here. I lick the wall. I need to taste this history. It tastes of snow and sadness. At least one thing tastes like me. I'm torn between arousal at the historical architecture and depression. I check my watch and see that its 1-minute after the hour. The museum has opened! I wander down the snowy grass and stare at the museum doors.
A woman appears at the door and stares out at me. She looks a bit distressed by me. I smile and wave. I look in through their small gift shop and wait before she's behind the till before wandering in. I'm the only one around. I feel unsure of myself, almost scared even to go inside. Rather than psych myself out like I usually would, I step inside and shuffle to the counter. "One adult, please." I offer a smile. She relaxes a bit. "One it is." She hands me a ticket and informs me that the museum is part of a tourism programme where I can get 50% off the admission other museums or historical places as long as I showed them the card. She marked it off with a marker pen and handed it back to me with the big bullshit businessman smile. I thank you and shuffle downstairs to where the exhibits start with medieval Bergen. I wish there was more of it.
I wonder if the skulls are real. Look into their empty eye sockets. I wonder who they are. What they did. If they were sick like me...I've been thinking about it, how things have spiralled since the diagnosis. How I live with that twisting fear, that control will be taken from me and that I'll end up humiliated once again. Sick and humiliated. Dead and humiliated. I press my fingertips to the glass. "Who were you? Did you know you'd end up here on display like some sort of freak show? Did you wish for this to happen? Did you have any idea this would happen?" I'm unsettled. I move to check out the city replicas and displays, not wanting to focus on what's calling from the case. I need to deal with this, or it will just keep eating away at me. How do I start to deal with it when I hate saying the word? How can I focus when the word turns my stomach and it makes me feel even more isolated.
I enjoy looking at the replicas they've built, wondering how long it took to do all of this. I head up to the second level of the museum. There's art there and a little cafe. The cafe is just starting up when I slip by like a ghost. The museum has been open a half hour and it's still the only one here. I like it. I can relax and not worry that I'm blending into the art. I lean over one of the cases and see that they have nutsac art. Literally, the museum has artwork of ballsacs with faces drawn on them and they're even wearing clothes.What the fuck even is this? They remind me of the Nazi propaganda cartoons my grandfather had. They always depicted the Germans as funny little things and encouraged teens to join the war efforts to aid people. Fight against Nazism. I wonder whatever happened to them. I move along, thinking about how art has changed throughout the years, but in many ways, its stayed the same. Human emotions preserved in ink, whispering throughout the ages. Times may change but there are a few things that always manage to stay the same. What a comforting notion.
They have some creepy drawings of an ant or a grasshopper type thing with buck teeth. IT almost reminds me of Kinder for a second, the teeth and some of the facial expressions. It's actually very comforting. I've got one more floor to explore. The third floor is for temporary exhibitions. They have all sorts of different painting displayed here. Some of the pieces aren't that impressive and are mediocre at best. I wonder what the fuck they're doing in a museum when my art won't ever be. (Maybe it was a tad of jealousy there.) I've had enough oil paintings, but before I leave I turn to leave my mark on the visitor book. Danny <3's Chubbs. I smirk at it, steal the pen and make my way down the stairs to exit.
Now's the time for the gem visit. I can't go into the tower since it's only open on Sundays, but I can check out the courtyard and the hall. I've been so anxious to come here. This is like the holy grail for someone like me. They're doing renovation and construction as I make my way up to the building. I'm not even sure if it's open or not. Someone wanders around taking photos, bundled up and departs, almost slipping as she passes me. The Hall might not be open. A woman carrying a sign comes out of one of the buildings as I finish taking my own snaps. She disappears back into the door before I have the chance to ask her anything. I read the sign she's put out. Oh! They are open. I'm the only one around, once again. The ghost town idea creeps back into me and I almost start to worry.
She hands me an information booklet and says that I'm going to be the only one here most likely. No one really shows up on days like these, especially when they're predicting snow. Leaves me to climb the stairs up into the hall and bathe in the silence. There's empty seats everywhere. Empty chairs and tables take up much of the first room. It's unsettling. I read how the hall was used for dining, meetings, religious services and more. I climb up and down stairs. More and more empty seats and tables. This is a hall for the dead. Ghosts fill these seats just as they do the spaces between my ribs. I have this odd feeling that I'm being watched. "No, no. You know ghosts aren't real. There is nothing here that can hurt you, Danny. It's just you, that nice woman and ruins....and thousands and thousands of disgruntled spirits!" My mind reels and I race upstairs. I need to escape. I can't go backwards, she'll know I've not seen the entire place.
I need to focus. Let reality ground me. There is nothing there to get me. It's me fucking with myself. I love the original stonework. Getting a grip on myself, I lean against the cold stone of the building. A waterfall of amazement rushes over me. It really now just dawns on me how many people lived and breathed in this very spot. That it's all not just something I've read about in a book or saw on a screen. This place is real. The people who build this were real. Marriages, funerals, christenings, even laws were created here. Life was written, lived and ended in this buildings. Sorrow and joy stain the walls of this building. I'll never know how many people passed through these doors and into the hall.
I get a few little souvenirs from the gift shop, making friendly chatter with the woman on the way out. Part of me doesn't want to leave her. I'm so drained from all the emotional energy that's been washing over me and all the reflecting that I've been doing that I just head back to the hotel. It's a little after two in the afternoon as I stroll down the harbour, the sun peeking out through the cast iron, woolly clouds. The waterfront of Bergen harbour is world heritage site and I can see why. The historical buildings are something that brings beauty to the city and are there to remind us of what dedication, devotion and good craftsmanship can achieve. I wander in and out of the shops, looking at the little knick-knacks for sale. I think of Chubbs and all the things we'd get up to, playing around in the shops, dodging in and out of the cold winds of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have been wearing ripped skinny jeans and just a hoodie. It was just a little nippy on the bare skin.
I settle on two cute little Viking ships from two different shops. The woman in the first shop was just damn intimidating. She was older than the hills of Bergen and as nasty as the winter winds. I was half convinced that if I didn't purchase something she'd have me thrown into the harbour. It's the cutest little thing though. It's two blokes with Viking helmets and mugs of beer riding one of the ships with a little Norwegian flag. I've got it right above my desk so I can look up at it and remember the adventures there fondly.
I know it's late. I've just been able to focus on it. Reflect on it. I've had so much in my head. It doesn't seem like it, as I've gotten several other blogs out, but you know what? They're distractions. Distractions form all the fucking shit in my head. Stuff I've not dealt with, things I don't even know how to deal with. I so badly want to crawl back to Bergen or Stockholm and just hide from everything going on. Shit is falling apart faster than I can make glue and I don't know what to do. Maybe the new therapist I'm going to see will help me. I've got one more travel blog to do and then that's done...Then I have other things I guess. What's the point? Delectables with Dan, nobody gives a shit about. Dan the Doodlebug is like bullshit, no one really reads that. It all just seems like a giant waste. Why do I do these things? Why do I bother? It's all fruitless labour. I don't even want to bother, but I know I will because I have nothing better to do with my life and I'm desperate to have someone pay attention to me...yet nobody really does. And I'm left out and ignored. I try so hard to make friends, but fuck me I guess it's not in the cards!
I'm awake early, earlier than I probably should be and put the coffee on. I'm ready to get out and explore, but I feel the city sleeping around me. The sun is just starting to peek out from its nightly hiding place. I've got a list of places I want to see today. There are so many more that I want to see but aren't open yet, I'm going to have to come back in the autumn when they open. There are so many opportunities for education here. I feel my familiar shyness threatening me; whispering to me that we should just hide in the room. I've done that too many times and I'm not about to squander this opportunity; I've wasted enough of them.
I wander down the slushy streets, trying not to fall on my ass. Again, doesn't anyone shovel the pavement around here? The sky reminds me of early summer, but the frost settling in the trees reminds me that it's mid-February. It's actually not that cold actually. The first place that I want to shoot is being under renovations, but I can get a few decent shots. To the city's credit, they put this kind of robe over the church tower that looks like it. It's pretty inventive to tell you the truth. I love the medieval architecture here. I feel like a proper adventurer. I walk out into what I like to call the city square and take a look out across the Bergen harbour. It's gorgeous. Shops line both sides of the harbour. In the distance, a church catches my eye I know I have to shoot there. That's interesting; despite my atheism doubt in faith and loathing for organised religion, I love churches and cathedrals. I love the architecture and the history of them. Get a hard-on for history kids. Learn all about it. It won't betray you. It won't tell you that you're fat or want you to meet its parents. It won't get you hooked on other things, well maybe archaeology and palaeontology, but those two things are far better than low-budget strippers and cocaine...though probably just as expensive.
It's too early for other things to be open and I didn't do my research on what's being renovated because I was too focused on just getting the fuck away from everything at home, so I decide to wander about, taking pictures. Some of the shots I've taken have been pretty good. I could sell these. Or try to sell these. I decide to indulge the tortured artist in me and take shots all around the city. To my left I see this massive, red cathedral looming over the harbour and I know I have to go there. I have to see it up close. I have to touch it. I have to taste it. I have to-wow, that sounds weirdly sexual, but I promise it isn't! I don't have some sort of cathedral fetish...though I might, you never know.
I take photos of still life around Bergen, just wanting to capture every moment that I can for later. Sometimes my memory is the worst and I can't remember fuck all, but this I want to hold close. I feel okay here, like I almost sort of fit. No one here knows me. I'm a complete stranger. I can do anything I want. I can be anything that I want. My mind circles back to the complete stranger notion. I am a complete stranger. Do I even know me? Who am I? I look at my reflection in the puddles. An ugly twat in a beanie hat covered in poor decisions stares back at me. He's got sad eyes. A mouth stained with corruption. I almost walk out into traffic because I'm debating what I am and who I am with myself. (I don't need another repeat of what happened in Leipzig in 2012..thought I really want to go back there. I've got such a hard-you know what? Let's focus on Bergen for now.)
The hill that the cathedral sits on is massive. I knew this was the city of the 7 mountains, but Jesus fuck. I feel like Moses as I take on the hill, climbing the steps slowly and carefully, not wanting to slip on the ice and crack my head open. Though, admittedly, I think it would be a nice vacation for my brain. The trauma of everything might cause it to focus on something other than my suicidal depression. I worry as I climb that I will slip and then everyone will point and laugh at me. I won't be able to survive the humiliation. I'll die of shame in a puddle of my own urine on an icy staircase. That's not the way I envisioned myself going.
After about 3 minutes, which actually feels like an eternity with all the overthinking going on, I reach the top of the hill and breathe in the cathedral. The colour still strikes me. Why the hell would anyone paint it red? What made the painters think "boy red is a great colour for this!"? I don't think I had this place on my list, but I'm glad I saw it. I don't always plan everything out. I like to wander around and shoot the things that catch my eye. Adventure is good. It helps me to work on my anxiety. I walk closer, across the courtyard and realise just how massive this building is. I can't get it all in my shot up close. I take photos from several different angles. For a moment I'm like the Nigel Barker of buildings; I don't care that locals are watching me crouch and dart about, trying out different depths and playing with the light.
I get up close and the building looms over me. I feel haunted. The colour appears evil up close. I'm not about to fuck with this, so I scamper off to explore a bit before the museum that I want to open. I head down the left side of the street, not wanting to have to tackle the staircase again. There has to be another way down. A few blocks down I see there is another way to get down...a fucking steep incline. I should have just braved the stairs. I'm even more scared of falling on my ass here. This is like walking on an acute angle. I take more pictures of the mountains, older buildings and neat little shops as I walk at a snail's pace down the incline. There are so many churches here. I've only been walking an hour and I've already seen 4 of them and there are one or two others on my list. Why are there so many? What if they're not actually there and I'm hallucinating?
I make my way in a circle, heading back towards the harbour so that I can go to the museum. I expect it to take a little longer than it does because I'm stopping to look at everything and take photos. I get there with 15 minutes to spare. I don't want to stand around looking like a jack-off, especially since there's no one else around. I glance around. It's dead. There's not a soul in sight. Nor are there any footprints in the fresh snow. The thought of 'this is a fucking ghost town' drifts into my head. I have to talk myself down. 'Let's get a grip, Daniel. You saw a few people earlier...you were basically stalking that couple by the theatre, remember?' But another voice from inside me whispers back, "You could have imagined them out of boredom. Or they could have been ghosts. How many people have you actually interacted with here?" I'm working myself into a near panic attack, although I really don't believe in ghosts. I need to do something. St. Mary's is only a few metres away. I can go there and shoot the courtyard and the exterior of the church. I'd love to be able to do the inside, but it's not allowed. Services still run in the church in both Norwegian and English. I think that's lovely. I'm tempted to check it out, but I know full well that if I walk into it, that building will collapse. I rarely go into the churches I shoot for that very reason. I don't feel welcome in them. I don't feel like I belong. I don't feel guilty or anything, it just feels wrong of me to be there.
This is great. I love the little graveyard in the church. It whispers to me. And I grin known I will never be rotting away in the ground. Nope, not me. I won't be having worms gnaw through my asshole. I'm going into the giant Easy Bake oven and will be burnt to shit, just like the chicken on your grandmother's BBQ. Then the ashes will be swept into a Diet Coke can and thrown into a landfill. I just want one thing engraved on the can, or maybe just like have a note taped to it that reads: introvert, sadomasochist, mindfucker. That's fitting. I'm garbage, so it only is fitting that I end up with the garbage. It's not like anyone would want my ashes hanging around. What does anyone actually do with ashes anyway? You know, I saw this special where this woman was eating her dead mother's ashes? If that doesn't scream mental imbalance, I don't know what does.
This place was built in 1180. I'm in awe. I'm seeing history here. It's beautiful. And it still looks magnificent. I hope I look this good in 10 years, never mind the hundreds of years this place has been around. I think of all the people who have been here; all those that have lived and died here. All the things that have happened here. If I wasn't thinking about my death and worms eating people, I'd be humbled by everything that happened here. I lick the wall. I need to taste this history. It tastes of snow and sadness. At least one thing tastes like me. I'm torn between arousal at the historical architecture and depression. I check my watch and see that its 1-minute after the hour. The museum has opened! I wander down the snowy grass and stare at the museum doors.
A woman appears at the door and stares out at me. She looks a bit distressed by me. I smile and wave. I look in through their small gift shop and wait before she's behind the till before wandering in. I'm the only one around. I feel unsure of myself, almost scared even to go inside. Rather than psych myself out like I usually would, I step inside and shuffle to the counter. "One adult, please." I offer a smile. She relaxes a bit. "One it is." She hands me a ticket and informs me that the museum is part of a tourism programme where I can get 50% off the admission other museums or historical places as long as I showed them the card. She marked it off with a marker pen and handed it back to me with the big bullshit businessman smile. I thank you and shuffle downstairs to where the exhibits start with medieval Bergen. I wish there was more of it.
I wonder if the skulls are real. Look into their empty eye sockets. I wonder who they are. What they did. If they were sick like me...I've been thinking about it, how things have spiralled since the diagnosis. How I live with that twisting fear, that control will be taken from me and that I'll end up humiliated once again. Sick and humiliated. Dead and humiliated. I press my fingertips to the glass. "Who were you? Did you know you'd end up here on display like some sort of freak show? Did you wish for this to happen? Did you have any idea this would happen?" I'm unsettled. I move to check out the city replicas and displays, not wanting to focus on what's calling from the case. I need to deal with this, or it will just keep eating away at me. How do I start to deal with it when I hate saying the word? How can I focus when the word turns my stomach and it makes me feel even more isolated.I enjoy looking at the replicas they've built, wondering how long it took to do all of this. I head up to the second level of the museum. There's art there and a little cafe. The cafe is just starting up when I slip by like a ghost. The museum has been open a half hour and it's still the only one here. I like it. I can relax and not worry that I'm blending into the art. I lean over one of the cases and see that they have nutsac art. Literally, the museum has artwork of ballsacs with faces drawn on them and they're even wearing clothes.What the fuck even is this? They remind me of the Nazi propaganda cartoons my grandfather had. They always depicted the Germans as funny little things and encouraged teens to join the war efforts to aid people. Fight against Nazism. I wonder whatever happened to them. I move along, thinking about how art has changed throughout the years, but in many ways, its stayed the same. Human emotions preserved in ink, whispering throughout the ages. Times may change but there are a few things that always manage to stay the same. What a comforting notion.
They have some creepy drawings of an ant or a grasshopper type thing with buck teeth. IT almost reminds me of Kinder for a second, the teeth and some of the facial expressions. It's actually very comforting. I've got one more floor to explore. The third floor is for temporary exhibitions. They have all sorts of different painting displayed here. Some of the pieces aren't that impressive and are mediocre at best. I wonder what the fuck they're doing in a museum when my art won't ever be. (Maybe it was a tad of jealousy there.) I've had enough oil paintings, but before I leave I turn to leave my mark on the visitor book. Danny <3's Chubbs. I smirk at it, steal the pen and make my way down the stairs to exit.
Now's the time for the gem visit. I can't go into the tower since it's only open on Sundays, but I can check out the courtyard and the hall. I've been so anxious to come here. This is like the holy grail for someone like me. They're doing renovation and construction as I make my way up to the building. I'm not even sure if it's open or not. Someone wanders around taking photos, bundled up and departs, almost slipping as she passes me. The Hall might not be open. A woman carrying a sign comes out of one of the buildings as I finish taking my own snaps. She disappears back into the door before I have the chance to ask her anything. I read the sign she's put out. Oh! They are open. I'm the only one around, once again. The ghost town idea creeps back into me and I almost start to worry.
She hands me an information booklet and says that I'm going to be the only one here most likely. No one really shows up on days like these, especially when they're predicting snow. Leaves me to climb the stairs up into the hall and bathe in the silence. There's empty seats everywhere. Empty chairs and tables take up much of the first room. It's unsettling. I read how the hall was used for dining, meetings, religious services and more. I climb up and down stairs. More and more empty seats and tables. This is a hall for the dead. Ghosts fill these seats just as they do the spaces between my ribs. I have this odd feeling that I'm being watched. "No, no. You know ghosts aren't real. There is nothing here that can hurt you, Danny. It's just you, that nice woman and ruins....and thousands and thousands of disgruntled spirits!" My mind reels and I race upstairs. I need to escape. I can't go backwards, she'll know I've not seen the entire place.
I need to focus. Let reality ground me. There is nothing there to get me. It's me fucking with myself. I love the original stonework. Getting a grip on myself, I lean against the cold stone of the building. A waterfall of amazement rushes over me. It really now just dawns on me how many people lived and breathed in this very spot. That it's all not just something I've read about in a book or saw on a screen. This place is real. The people who build this were real. Marriages, funerals, christenings, even laws were created here. Life was written, lived and ended in this buildings. Sorrow and joy stain the walls of this building. I'll never know how many people passed through these doors and into the hall.
I walk into the hall and feel awe wash over me. The room is gorgeous. Classical. Elegance, dedication to craft and adoration to a higher power fills the room. It's like being in a cathedral. Chandeliers hang from the high room and the almost dozen windows allow light in to further illuminate the room. They have stage lights set on the head of the hall where a table sits. They still hold events here to this day. That's how many generations of people? Different languages, the evolution of language, the evolution of culture, the evolution of society...this room saw it all.I wonder what else it saw...my thoughts begin to drift to the profane before I realise I'm there to shoot photos, not my load.
I get a few little souvenirs from the gift shop, making friendly chatter with the woman on the way out. Part of me doesn't want to leave her. I'm so drained from all the emotional energy that's been washing over me and all the reflecting that I've been doing that I just head back to the hotel. It's a little after two in the afternoon as I stroll down the harbour, the sun peeking out through the cast iron, woolly clouds. The waterfront of Bergen harbour is world heritage site and I can see why. The historical buildings are something that brings beauty to the city and are there to remind us of what dedication, devotion and good craftsmanship can achieve. I wander in and out of the shops, looking at the little knick-knacks for sale. I think of Chubbs and all the things we'd get up to, playing around in the shops, dodging in and out of the cold winds of the day. Maybe I shouldn't have been wearing ripped skinny jeans and just a hoodie. It was just a little nippy on the bare skin.
I settle on two cute little Viking ships from two different shops. The woman in the first shop was just damn intimidating. She was older than the hills of Bergen and as nasty as the winter winds. I was half convinced that if I didn't purchase something she'd have me thrown into the harbour. It's the cutest little thing though. It's two blokes with Viking helmets and mugs of beer riding one of the ships with a little Norwegian flag. I've got it right above my desk so I can look up at it and remember the adventures there fondly.
I know it's late. I've just been able to focus on it. Reflect on it. I've had so much in my head. It doesn't seem like it, as I've gotten several other blogs out, but you know what? They're distractions. Distractions form all the fucking shit in my head. Stuff I've not dealt with, things I don't even know how to deal with. I so badly want to crawl back to Bergen or Stockholm and just hide from everything going on. Shit is falling apart faster than I can make glue and I don't know what to do. Maybe the new therapist I'm going to see will help me. I've got one more travel blog to do and then that's done...Then I have other things I guess. What's the point? Delectables with Dan, nobody gives a shit about. Dan the Doodlebug is like bullshit, no one really reads that. It all just seems like a giant waste. Why do I do these things? Why do I bother? It's all fruitless labour. I don't even want to bother, but I know I will because I have nothing better to do with my life and I'm desperate to have someone pay attention to me...yet nobody really does. And I'm left out and ignored. I try so hard to make friends, but fuck me I guess it's not in the cards!
Comments
Post a Comment