13/12 – A lovely little room.

A couple of weeks of courses in Aberdeen in November gave me the opportunity to see a bit of Scotland during the weekend in between the courses. I had only been travelling through Edinburgh previously, so I quite quickly decided that it would be worth to pay the well reputed university city a visit. Unfortunately, and just like as so many other times during the last few years, it seemed like a mission impossible to get some travel company for my short weekend trip. And as always I refused to not to go just because I couldn’t get anyone to come along. In other words, a solo weekend in Edinburgh in November it was. In an attempt to make it less solo, I decided to go for the couch surfing tactics when it came to accommodation. After reading miles of profiles and sending half a dozen of requests, I found this cool MTB guy, with a flat close to the city, who was willing to host me for a couple of nights. It took us about 32 seconds to hit the chatting off when we first met at the local pub on the Friday night. Before we both realized it, we were lost in travel stories from all over the planet and I was quite relieved that my host for the weekend seemed to be a totally normal guy.

After a Saturday of walking, walking and walking - canals, shopping streets, castles and Arthur’s Seat (couldn’t really leave this land mark after just having read One Day) – the plan was to go for a quiet dinner and then meet up with my host at around 10 pm for a couple of cocktails. All in all, it was going to be quite a civilized night and I already had a plan in mind for some early Sunday morning sightseeing. However, one of the nice things with travelling is that sometimes things don’t work out the way you thought they would. 

Just after midnight, I got a call from my couch surfing mate. With a semi-drunk voice he told me that he’d locked us out. The keys were in safe storage in the flat, which obviously was going to make it quite hard to make it back in again. But no worries whatsoever, according to the drunk Irishman, he was going to head into the city centre in about an hour or so and he had at least five(!) mates where he could probably crash for the night. And for sure, one of them wouldn’t mind if he dragged me along as well. After two Italian restaurants, twice as many glasses of wine, a carrot cake worth a marathon or two and almost 100 pages in the brilliant The Angel’s Game I was quite sure my party mood wasn’t on the same level as my host’s. And it definitely wouldn’t last for another few hours while waiting for him to make it into town and finishing off the night at some bars. Instead, I thought I’d try to find another place to stay for the night, somewhere which wouldn’t ruin the Christmas shopping budget and would have a reception open at 00:37. It turned out that it wasn’t the easiest mission on the planet. Ah well, at least the walking was going to keep me awake until Mr Party made it to the city centre if I hadn’t found a bed before then. An hour, and many hostels, hotels and B&Bs later, when I was close to giving up, I suddenly walked past a bar. I had a look at the sign on the corner and noticed they’d also squeezed the word “hotel” in on the sign. The place didn’t really look like something that would normally be my first hand choice. It did look like the first hand choice for students on the hunt for cheap beer though. And for middle-aged women in safari pattern mini dresses on the hunt for something else, the students perhaps. However, a bed is a bed is a bed. I fought my way through the crowd and found quite a worn bartender in the far corner. Without hesitation, he did not only reply that he had a room available but he also added that it was a “lovely little room”. Somehow, that just made me even more sceptical. But again, a bed is a bed is a bed and if you’re tired enough all you need is some toilet tissues to put into your ears and something heavy to place in front of the door and you can sleep through most things, even in not so lovely little rooms. After the bartender had spent some time discussing with a second bartender, which of the rooms was actually empty, and then having to ask a third bartender for help to find the keys for the assumed empty room, we started the climb up the stairs. The more stairs you climb to a hotel room could either mean that you’re on your way to the pent house suite or to the wardrobe sized attic shack. The room was neither and to my surprise, it was indeed a “lovely little room”. Set up like a proper British countryside B&B room with heavy wooden furniture, a big old mirror and pale pink (or terracotta is perhaps the correct nuance for these kind of settings) flowerpots, block candles and tablecloths. Instead of a view of rivers or hills, the window looked out over the rooftops of Edinburgh and Firth of Forth was flowing in the distance to the left.

Again, one of the nice things with travelling is that sometimes things don’t work out the way you thought they would, sometimes they work out a lot better. 

31/10 – Stavanger Sunshine and Halifax Holiday?

A couple of weeks ago, during one of the first nightshifts at work, a colleague and I somehow came to talk about Canada, and Nova Scotia in particular. He’d spent some days in Halifax at some stage and had apparently quite enjoyed it. Once he got started, my colleague wouldn’t stop talking about the daily lobster dishes, the good beer and music at the bars and nightclubs and the friendly Canadians there.

A while later, seafood crazy me was all hooked by the idea of getting fresh cooked lobster straight from the fishermen in the harbour to make your own lobster lunch sandwich right there on the dock. And for prices you would only dream about in Scandinavia. Some surfing later, Halifax turned into a possible destination for a couple of winter weeks at some stage in the beginning of the New Year. Just need to sort out minor details such as time off from work and if I’ll be able to get fresh lobster there in February for sure, 100% or I’m not going.

However, before Halifax, Stavanger was on the itinerary. Oilrig – Esbjerg – Billund – Amsterdam – Stavanger, quickest routing there was. Guess a kayak or optimist dingy straight from the rig to Stavanger would have been just as speedy.

So, what would Stavanger have to offer? I arrived with a totally blank sheet and no expectations, had a look at the map and headed for the old town, a safe bet in most cities. Cosy indeed and worth a stroll. Then I went along the pubs and restaurants at the waterfront and across to the small cobblestone shopping streets. Cosy again and here I found a new potential favourite, and strong competitor to both Icebreaker and Bintang for the top of my list – Moods of Norway. Good start of the day in Stavanger, and it was going to get better.

As I was walking along one of the main streets, enjoying the sunny autumn day with my mind on Halifax, I came down to the water again, and suddenly there was no need for Canada anymore. Along the dock, three fishing boats had just come in and were about to line up the white Styrofoam boxes and their home made signs and banners. And what were they selling? Lobster of course! Fresh and cooked ones, massive shrimps, nice crabs and even more lobster. The only thing missing was the Canadian price. Think Denmark will feel like a cheap place to buy food for the first time ever when I make it back there after the Norway stop.

Once I’d passed the fishing boats, I couldn’t help to get a bit tempted to visit the Norsk Oljemuseum – The Norwegian Petroleum Museum – when walking past. But since I was supposed to have a couple of days off, and think as little as possible about work, I left it for another time. The museum is in a quite modern building at the waterfront, with Christmas trees and hole opener assemblies decorating the place together with platform caissons and pipelines. The oilfield part of me thinks it looks kind of neat, other parts of me think it’s sad to disturb the view with old industrial leftovers. Anyways, the playground is pretty clever though and the bouncing area made from buoys is one of the more inventive recycling ideas I’ve ever seen. Just wish I was young enough to join the kids for a bounce, perhaps I could have sneaked past after the pub later on?

The conclusion after a couple of days in Stavanger was easy, I definitely want to come back. Like that is a rare conclusion for a place I’ve been visiting…not really. Perhaps, I could come back for a week of kayaking in the fjords, hiking in the mountains and other outdoor activities, followed by a weekend of beer drinking and partying. Or a month or so of just hanging out, enjoying the scenery and atmosphere and eventually get around to have that lobster sandwich. It’s a nice town, this Norwegian oilfield Mecca, and it feels like I would fit in here. Even my GoreTex shoes, hoodie and new Haglöfs jacket fit here. Feels a bit like Luleå actually, and will for sure be added to the places, which makes me wonder what I’m doing in Copenhagen. I’m sure I’ll have the answer to that question in a few hours when I’m back home though. If not, I’ll deal with that then.

Oh, almost forgot, if you ever fly in to Stavanger, make sure not to jump straight into the taxi or bus when leaving the terminal building. Take a right and walk towards the white walls surrounding the small grass hills (I know, it sounds strange, but you’ll know what I mean when you see it). Then, take a look at the brilliant aviation “picture” in one of the white walls. Sometimes I’m very easy to impress. 

26/10 – Rome Reflections – finally.

I have a vague memory of writing that there was more Rome to come at some stage. Feels like centuries ago, but here we go. Let’s see if I can remember what Mr Nomad and myself were up to that weekend in May. Finally. 

The start of the city getaway was full on right away. During the first two hours in the Italian capital we managed to tick off one bottle of wine, pasta, cheese, ice cream and the must-see Fontana di Trevi. However, the first restaurant didn’t really live up to the high expectations we arrived with. The staff all seemed like they’d skipped their classes at the local high school for the day and had their first day at work that particular Friday. But the Carbonara went down ok, and so did the elderberry flower like wine – easy drinking and good for soothing the slightly dented culinary expectations. In other words, an ok start of the Italian experience. And the restaurants did get better, luckily. And better, and better, and better. Pasta, pizza, bread, wine, olives, more pasta, more wine, I can’t complain at all.

It was just one thing we didn’t manage to grasp when it came to food. Somehow, we were of the impression that the whole point with restaurants having a menu, was to communicate what they would have available for serving. I’m not sure all Italian restaurants would agree on that. Three out of twenty dishes or so was a common average of available courses when trying to order something. To compensate for this, it wasn’t uncommon that they would throw in an additional dish or two instead, preferably instead of the one you had just ordered and most of the times without telling you. But hey, when in Rome… And what’s the big deal really? Lasagna or spinach cannelloni? Scallops or veal? Red or white wine? You would hardly notice the difference, would you? Oh, ok…it would matter, scusi very much…

Except for eating and drinking, the main aims with the trip were to stay city chic all weekend (no GoreTex shoes or sporty rucksacks allowed) and to see all these things all the fuss is about. The old, big and presumably boring sites which you’re supposed to see when in Rome. And since we had decided to be proper tourists for once, we bought it all – the open bus tour, the boat tour, the guided tour, you name it. Only thing we didn’t fall for was the caricature portrait on Piazza Navona. Next time perhaps.

Normally, I’m very moderately impressed by city culture and anything related to historical sites. The yawning muscles start to twitch and my mind drifts away after a few minutes of attempting to show interest. But after the days in Rome, I’m suspecting that it’s all about size after all. I just need it to be big enough for my interest cells to switch on. Remember, we’re talking history and ruins here, nothing else.

The guided tour of Colosseum, Palatine Hill and Forum Romanum was worth every cent. Not only to skip the lines, but instead of seeing piles of bricks and enormous pillars, suspiciously looking to be made of foam and flown in for a Hollywood setting, we saw the banquet halls with the Romans’ gluttony and the private arena with lions for when Colosseum was too far away for entertainment.

The charismatic and bilingual David gave us about the level of historical details I could handle. With the British cynicism and accent from his mother and self-confidence, gestures and attitude from his Italian father, he took us through the endless ruins without loosing a second of my attention. Impressive. For the Romans 'forever' meant forever, not 'forever' as in 40 years like today. As said, impressive.

Of course, the city chic objective had its price, especially since I happen to be a woman. Some twelve kilometres in high-heels is not top of the pops really. Luckily, it’s not every day my poor feet get that challenge. But a weekend in Rome requires high-heels – no compromises possible. And as long as you stick to the quick stop at the Trastevere flat, to change to another pair of high-heels, before going out for aperitivos and dinner, you’ll be all right. It’s all about distributing the blisters and pain you see.

To finish off the Italian weekend on Monday morning, we stopped by a small deli to pick up some fresh juice and salami sandwiches. Then went across the street to sit on the stairs leading down to the arena of Circus Maximus to enjoy our breakfast. Again, an impressive site that made our minds drift away to imagine what it would have looked like thousands of years ago. When getting back to reality I didn’t see the horse carriages charging past though. The only running around going on at the circus was made by slightly overweight locals and their dogs. Time to go home. And time to put some flat shoes on.

More Rome photos here. 

20/10 – Airports…

Sometimes, airports make me want to crack out in uncontrolled laughter and sometimes they just make me feel like sitting down and cry. Or more specifically, it’s not the airports as such, but the atmosphere in there, the different feelings reflected in people’s eyes and the physical behaviour and body language of my fellow travellers. I can spend hours observing them at the gates or after walking through the terminal doors with my over loaded baggage trolley.

A while back, I arrived at Kastrup airport, after a few days in Sweden I think it was. Probably one of those trips, where I rushed around according to a minute schedule and tried to catch up with as much family and friends as possible. Normally, the set-up would have a pattern like Arlanda, Stockholm, Norrtälje, Alsike, Uppsala, Flogsta, Uppsala, Uppsala, Sunnersta, Bergsbrunna, Arlanda. Arrival, friends, grandmother, brother, parents, another friend, one last friend, Bibbi, some friend’s parents or sister as a bonus, breakfast with parents, departure. Should probably not even try to count the number of cups of coffee and sweet bread which pass through my system per day during those trips. But no doubt about it, it’s worth every second and every cinnamon bun. 

 Anyway, I was back at Kastrup again and making my way from the arrival gate, through to the baggage claim and to the metro, which was going to bring me close enough to home.

While I was walking the B-gate corridor with my normal high pace and heavy, decisive steps I realised that I was about to pass Mr and Mrs Grandparent. Nothing strange with that, if it wasn’t for their dear plant, neatly planted in a white plastic cup with a plastic bag around it for the occasion. Arriving from who-knows-where, walking hand in hand, slowly and carefully watching every step. The Mrs G with her handbag in a secure grip and her husband with a firm hand around the tiny trunk of their pristine plant. Of course, the plant should come along, why haven’t I ever thought of that? I should have brought my old companion High Chaparral when I left for Holland in 2003 and he might have been around still.

Or perhaps it was just a goof to spread some joy and make people smile? Or candid camera? It’s not very often I’ve seen something causing so many busy people fighting massive outbursts of laughter. Myself included.

On the contrary, you have those other moments, which make me want to walk towards the trains as quickly as possible and just get out of that horrible place. That’s when I see the eyes of someone waiting, with flowers bought at the kiosk by the exit, not really sure of what the reaction of the person, who will walk through the frosted sliding doors, will be. So much hope, so much anxiety, so much happiness, so much sadness. At the very same arrival as when I saw the old folks with the tree, the two eyes I met on the other side of the fence made my heart hurt all the way through. I just wanted to walk up to him and tell him it would all be all right – she’ll be thrilled to see you again. But something deep down in his eyes told me that I would probably have been lying if I did.

13/10 – Didn’t know lighters were outdated.

It used to be a sea of lighters. Now all I could see when looking out over the crowd, when Flea & Co. got going with Under the Bridge in The Globe Arena on Tuesday, was a sea of smart phone screens. Not quite the same.

Since on the subject; if you haven’t read the Anthony Kiedis biography Scar Tissue yet, make sure to get around and do it. Even if only half of it would be true, it’s still amazing that the guy is still alive. Not to mention that the almost 50-year-old man is still flying around as a teenager on stage. If he’d just get that horrible moustache off his face, I’m sure he’ll be as hot as ever.

Autumn 2011 Photos

Edinburgh November 2011

Airports

Stavanger October 2011

5/9 – The blonde goes African – or what’s wrong with home?

What am I up to here really? Rushing around to places like Wyoming, Brazil, New Mexico, Argentina and Rome. Having tickets booked for Istanbul and can’t let go of the thought of sailing in the Caribbean in January, hiking in Bhutan in March or bringing my purple beauty on a road trip to Croatia. Or why not getting back to places like Wanaka, Melbourne and Mendoza as quickly as possible?

What happened to home? And what happened to Sweden? Does everything need to happen so far away? Do I sound like my mother now?

Got a real eye opener just before my last offshore hitch. Just when I thought I’d run out of social quota and when my packed schedule seemed to slide more and more towards the just-too-much end of the scale instead of the fun-with-a-lot-of-things-planned end, I decided to try and recharge my batteries in Gothenburg with some top-quality social company. Just the train ride to get there made my blood pressure come down to an acceptable level and once I was sitting on my friend’s sofa with a beer in my hand I started to come back to civilization again.

The next day was spent in the pristine archipelago of Gothenburg. Hard to admit for someone who’s always spent the summers in the archipelago of Stockholm, but Gothenburg has got some good stuff as well, really. Fresh seafood and bubbles for dinner didn’t make the day any worse.

A couple of days later, southern Sweden kept on climbing on my want-to-visit list. After a morning dip by the beach in Magnarp, breakfast while watching butterflies and a quiet stroll watching cows and horses – eh, ok, a one year old was involved in those animal activities there – I took the bike for a de-tour on my way back to Copenhagen. Lunch in the harbour of Höganäs, coffee in picturesque Mölle and an amazing ride up to the lighthouse in Kullens National Reserve. Tarmac smooth enough for roller skis and this fantastic light you get when driving through a forest in sunshine. Conclusion, Sweden shouldn’t have to wait until I’ve bought myself a camper van and retired from working. Think I need to fit a couple of road trips in north from here in between the far-away-land plans. 

Having said that, at this very moment, the bags are almost packed, weird looking toy money has found their spot in my wallet and the Malaria prescription has been changed out for a whole bunch of white pills. Extra memory card and cleaning kit for my favourite toy has been purchased and packed together with the tri-pod. A high-clearance pick-up (fingers crossed for a Hilux), tent, camping kitchen and hostel for the first night in Windhoek have also been sorted. In other words, feels like I’m pretty set for the trip of the year and I’m sure Namibia will show Andy and me it’s very best sides during the next few weeks. Can’t wait to see the sand dunes in sunrise, spot some big game at a water hole, watch the wrecks along the Skeleton Coast and visit some villages where people live in a different era still. Counting on returning with thousands of photos, even more memories and hopefully some good stories to share.

And even if there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Sweden at all, I’ll keep my travels through home country on the to-do-list for another little while… Next year perhaps… Or the one after that… 

23/8 – How hard can it be? #3 – Just wanted a notebook.

The May weekend in Rome was supposed to be about food, wine, photography and coffee. Not about iPods, smartphones, laptops, GPSs and all other sorts of gadgets. Except for the camera, the only device allowed to come along was my mobile. Not sure my faithful black w810i would be called a mobile really these days, but I’ll stick to it until it totally collapses or I’ve got infected by the iPhone bug like everyone else.

Thus, no laptop was packed for the trip and thus nowhere to make notes, like the draft for this blog entry for example, or the rest of the Rome story – which is still to come, I know. Didn’t have much stationary available at home either since the majority of my things were still packed away in moving boxes back in May. In other words, not much of handbag size to write on to bring along. No worries, I’ll just get a notebook at the airport to use during the weekend, easy as that…I thought.

First try, tax free shop – Not much of suitable size to write on in there and would be too hard to keep the flimsy perfume paper strips in the right order for a whole weekend. Could be an interesting concept for another trip though.

Second try, newspaper stand – Exclusive moleskin notebooks for half a fortune only, more suitable for the middle-aged businessman to match his briefcase and fancy pen, i.e. not for me.

Third try, toy store – “No, sorry, only colouring in books.” Hm…back-up plan perhaps.

Fourth try, book store – “A notebook? We’ll get more in next week, what size screen were you thinking of?” Ok, salesman working in a different reference system than me.

Started to get a bit frustrated by then, seemed like there was a whole airport without a simple A5 or smaller notepad to be found. At the second newspaper stand, I finally found one, which fulfilled my criteria. And there was only a single one left on the bottom shelf of the rack. Don’t know if that was because there are more people than me who still just like to use a pen and paper for making notes sometimes, or if the poor notepad had been sitting there since the 80’ies or so waiting for a blonde with an urge to use a pen again. Didn’t really matter at the time, because five minutes later I was waiting for the Rome weekend to take off with an enormous Caffe Latte and happy scribbling along on my new notepad. 

How hard can it be? #1

How hard can it be? #2

  

17/8 - Always look on the bright side…

The most positive statement I’ve heard in a long time was made by one of the guys from the 100% British rig crew on my last hitch. When it was announced that we were running out of drinking water, he quite as-a-matter-of-factly concluded, that the only food the galley could make without water would be deep fried food. The 62 Brits onboard must have felt as they were in paradise.

23/7 - Who needs Rio?

Good question when summer has reached Copenhagen. I don’t. At least not when you get days like the one I got a couple of weeks ago. The plan was to spend the day unpacking boxes, putting wardrobes together and rushing around to the pride of my home country, a.k.a. flat pack paradise, various hardware stores and other places of limited interest on a sunny summer’s day. Instead, when I realised what the weather was going to be like, I quickly decided to take a day off from my new flat. A phone call to my water sport fan of friend and breakfast in the harbour was sorted.

After that, a morning on a Jet Ski, lunch on the waterfront, a couple of hours of sailing before another few turns on the Jet Ski to get to the beach. Some swimming, followed by a nap in the sand to relax from the slightly busy (eh…) day and then back to the sailboat again. The excellent July day was completed with a bbq and a bottle of wine in the cockpit before drowsing off to the sound of water against the hull - hard to beat.

For the more urban evenings in Copenhagen, the bbq can be moved to the brand new balcony and caipirinhas in Lapa can be replaced by the Danish cocktail haven downtown. Push the golden doorbell and walk through the black door to enter cocktail paradise. Your taste buds will be treated with cocktail combinations and flavours far better than most places. In other words, I think I’ll survive for a little while still without Brazilian beauty.

Totally off the topic, got a bit confused the other day. While waiting for the dentist a book caught my eyes on the table in the waiting room. “Guide til Danmarks bjerge” – “Guide to the mountains of Denmark”. Very odd concept indeed.

29/6 – The most Swedish of them all, with flowers in your hair and little frogs.

My plans for Midsommar had been set ages ago, thanks to my lovely mother turning 60 on the very same day as Midsummer Eve. A logistic plan of the more ambitious kind had been set up for the Thursday to be able to make it from work offshore Denmark to the summerhouse in the archipelago of Stockholm in time. Not only did it involve back-up flights and helicopters flying as planned, but also amazing friends who were willing to put up with a slightly dictating tone and airport pick-up arrangements to make it all come into action. The minute margin plan was completed when we galloped down towards the taxi boat from the car park and were the last passengers to jump on board before the boat left the harbour. Twenty minutes later we all had a glass of wine in our hands and the most Swedish weekend of them all could begin.

A weekend of eating, drinking, throwing wooden pieces on other wooden pieces, a.k.a. kubb, and of course also the traditional skipping around in a circle around a tall cross while waving our hands at our ears and singing about little frogs. Those of you who are Swedish know exactly what I mean. Trying to explain the dancing around the flower decorated midsommarstång comes through just as weird as trying describe the Lucia celebrations in December, with the boys in nightgowns and white cones on their heads. And for those of you who aren’t Swedish, I won’t even try to give you a picture of what was going on in the parks and on the meadows in Sweden last weekend. You just need to make your way over here another year and experience it together with us; Spinning around yourself while clapping over your head and running around in a circle holding hands, with flowers in your hair of course.

The combination of even birthday and midsummer turned out to be a winner. Family, old friends, new friends, never-ending food and drink supply, hula-hoop performances and a jet fighter surprise, which will never be forgotten by the birthday girl, made it the most memorable midsummer ever. Morning swims in the bay, discussions and conversations shooting across the tables and generations, litres of coffee and heaps of sticky buns, philosophical chats while walking through the forests, sunbathing on the deck, colourful drinks and entrecotes on the BBQ, treasure hunts for drunk members of the party at early morning hours and relaxing on the cliffs by the light house while watching the boats sail past – I couldn’t have wished for more. 

While drinking wine and listening to the birds singing at 4 o’clock in the morning in company of the best of friends, it’s an absolute no-brainer – there’s no other place on the planet I’d rather be. 

9/6 – Only in Italy.

It’s style, and a bit more style, topped off with some style. Slightly different to our Scandinavian officers of order on city bikes with nerdy bike helmets ruining any possible fancy hairdos. Or the ones in bright yellow vests and baseball caps on their heads, trying to keep a somewhat look of authority and coolness in their ergonomically correct boots.

More Rome to come…And photos...

Rome 2011