My girlfriend had work in Norway this week, so I tagged along. It’s strange to be traveling around without having gigs. I brought a guitar–I always do–but didn’t even crack the case.
We were in Bergen, on the coast, this insanely gorgeous town on mountain slopes, and there was a fantastic snowstorm. On the ride between there and Oslo we passed through the train station with the highest elevation in Norway–there were houses, chimneys emitting smoke, half-buried in the snow. What do they do there? What do they need, other than a mailman and a guy to open up the train station?
There were boats and a funicular. I sought a Norwegian sweater, but they all looked super jolly on me. (“Jolly” is a new pejorative, replacing “gay,” because how stupid is it to say things are “gay” in the age of Prop 8?)
We talked to a guy who asked, “You’re Obama people?” Mais oui. He seemed mystified that during the Bush years Europeans were hostile to us.
Now I’m in a tiny room in a budget hotel in Oslo–flying back tomorrow–it’s depressing here, staying by the train station–I was approached by aggressive African whores as I went to Dolly Dimple’s pizza and then to the 7-Eleven–!!–for salt licorice. (Which is what it sounds like, salty black licorice. Very trippy.)