I've spent the last week hiking in Rondane, Norway's oldest National Park. The mountains here are bare and rounded, covered with lichen and rock. It is the habitat of Reindeer and Musk Ox and lemmings. The playwright Ibsen loved to walk in Rondane, and every other trail or hut is named Peer Gynt. The weather has been lousy, rainy and foggy and cold, but I slept every night in warm, cosy huts, and ate three course meals cooked by the staff there. The Norwegians didn't seem to mind the weather. They geared up and hiked out into the fog and drizzle every morning, filling the huts at night. Next stop: Trondheim.
As much as I hated to leave the farm, I am glad to be traveling again. Being on the move has a certain addictive charm. The momentum itself keeps you going. From one meal to the bus or train to the next place to sleep. At some moments every change, every new thing, feels jarring. Nothing is familiar. Every day brings something different. But there is so much monotony, too, in travel: waiting an hour for the next bus, sitting on the train as the countryside rolls by, reading by the fire waiting for dinner hour. At times like these it's easy to forget how strange and wonderful it is to set out every day doing something you have never done before. What a gift it can be not to know what will happen from one day to the next.
Also, there's something wonderful about moving through the world like a wide-eyed five year old. Everything is suddenly new and I have no idea how the simplest things work. I can spend a half hour figuring out how to turn on the tap in the bathroom and feel accomplished when I finally get it. The simplest things become mysterious again, and the details of everyday existence take on new meaning. Of course, here in Europe, I don't have to remain a clueless child forever. Unlike traveling alone in Thailand, or India, the customs and signage are slightly more approachable. If I put my mind to it, I will eventually figure it out. And it's virtually guaranteed that someone nearby speaks English at least passably.
I do feel bad, of course, for being the stupid American who only speaks one language. I always think if I could have a superpower I'd love to be a polyglot. That said, there is something so wonderful about not understanding the babble around me. I don't have to be subjected to the inanity of other people's conversations. I can sit there with my own thoughts (fairly inane themselves, but at least mine), while background words blur into noise. Or I can look at other people and make up the conversations they might be having- making them as eloquent or as lewd as I prefer. The two men ahead of me on the bus this afternoon were having a lively conversation about pigs balls, or at least that's what it sounded like to me.
Of course, it is possible to be alone too much. You can easily go a tiny bit crazy if you've had too much time alone with your thoughts, particularly if you've been walking for hours through the rain and the mud in the mountains. On the train this afternoon, I found myself having a furious internal dialogue with the man in the row behind me who kept blowing his nose every few minutes with gusto. The sound itself was annoying and I also felt sure he would destroy his sinuses with the force of his blows. But I told myself not to get annoyed with him- it was hardly his fault that he had a cold. Then I began to feel annoyed that he was spreading his sickness through the stuffy air of the train compartment. I began to actually feel as if I was getting sick myself. I was furious with myself for letting myself be annoyed with him. I worked myself up into quite a fluster. When I finally turned around to get a look at the fellow, I realized that the noise I had been hearing actually came from the automatic sliding door- opening and closing as people came through the train compartment. I spent the rest of the train journey staring out the window, feeling very foolish indeed.
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