Bergen, Norway: First stop
At the end of our noisy redeye from JFK (Ambika: asleep; Ted: squirming), the pilot announced the weather in Bergen: "Amazing! We have 27 degrees and sun." We bought bus tickets from an incomprehensible Norwegian bus ticket machine (smarter than us, but willfully unhelpful) and went to town. The sky was cloudless, the fjords sparkling, all the people coifed and gorgeous. (Ambika: Blonde! Blonde! Another Blonde!)
At Kong Haakon's Hall we got trapped in the dungeons, which were full of modernist wooden furniture. Everywhere was perfect and clean and expensive, and every Norwegian and her mother were basking in the sun, but all we wanted to do was sleep in the shade. Instead, we ate some reindeer burgers. In the afternoon, after wandering up and down the steep fjord-side through flowery gardens in a stupor, we rode the funicular to the top of Flø mountain, where we stopped fighting it and took a nap on the grass in a quiet piney wood. The woods were full of Scandewegian children smeared with ice cream and hooting, so we hauled ourselves back down the funicular, ate two pizzas and boarded a blonde flight for Corfu.
