Anyway, Anne Gerd's is a house in the middle of nowhere and in the front yard is what Europeans call a camper and a scruffy camper, at that; an upturned kayak; a shipping container; and other assorted quaint-ities. Ann is putting on her disapproving, skeptical look; I earnestly reiterate "it's the best B&B in the Lofotens, top ratings."
Rummaging around in the container is a thirty-ish woman
who introduces herself as Mari Mette, Anne Gerd's daughter. She explains that Anne Gerd is off hiking
with her grandchildren in the nearby mountains, and shows us to our room -- and
to our shared bath. I am shocked and
chagrined to have been unaware of bath sharing . . . Ann is thunderstruck; Ann is not a shared bath sort of girl
anymore, having outgrown those 50 years ago in her hostel days. Ann is also no poker player; her hostile
disapproval was frozen on her face, much to the distress of Mari Mette. We
repair to our very simply furnished room -- two single beds -- to have a lively
debate.
I mollify her, slightly, by agreeing that we don't have
to stay here the full four days and can move on. Anne Gerd's arrival scotches that when she points out that it's a prepaid reservation, that the shared bath is plainly
listed on the web page (which I hadn't bothered to check, being such a
TripAdvisor devotee) and that there would be no refund. Now Ann's giving me that steamed stare that
tells me I am in deep you-know-what.
"Let's have a cocktail and get our wits together and
talk this out at dinner" says Mr. Meekly Uriah Heeply. "I'll get some ice."
"Ice?" says a bemused Anne Gerd;
"we have no ice." "Well
what about the freezer?" (I had
noticed the big side-by-side two-door refrigerator in the large and modern
kitchen.) "We have no freezer."
Back to our room: Ann is now in a state of pissed disbelief. I pour Ann her evening martini in a bathroom glass -- sans ice, olives,
vermouth, but a good slug of Finnish Vodka.
Mine is a Jameson, which I drink neat anyway, both purchased at the Duty
Free shop upon arrival in Bergen a week ago.
Well, to make this long story longer, we take our
"cocktails" to the living room where we meet the only other guests,
a German, bath-sharing father and son spending a week climbing the stunning
Lofoten peaks. Anne Gerd's grandkids
come to shyly say hello, trying out their English -- same ages as two of
ours. Anne Gerd engages us with tales of
how this all came about, how she retired from teaching on the mainland, moved here after her divorce, and became civic leader, activist, conservationist. Mari Mette is married to
a Sami reindeer herder and artisan knife maker, ($5k a klip) and when the kids' school is
out, will be moving to join him for the summer grazing in Sweden. Ann is softening under the charm of Anne
Gerd. "We'll make this work"
she gamely tells me at dinner in nearby Leknes.
A day later, after a great breakfast, getting the kids
off to school, chatting up our Andres and Chris, our co-bathroomers, Ann
has her happy face on again. That night
we meet Kashindi, a 34 year old Congolese whom Anne Gerd took under her
wing when he arrived in Norway as an 18 year old refugee from the civil wars; he lives in the camper in the front yard and helps
with maintenance tasks. Anne Gerd is
busy baking a chocolate cake for granddaughter's Ellen's class while Kashindi
and I teach Ellen how to play (Congolese rules) checkers while younger brother
Jon Ailo eagerly awaits his turn while Andres and Chris plan their next
day's peak while Ann kibitzes in the kitchen.
She went to bed a happy camper.
The day we left, Anne Gerd learned that I had been in the
hotel business. "This is a
home" she sternly said, "not a hotel." And Ann told her it was the best experience
we've had as she gave Anne Gerd a heartfelt goodby hug. I drove off feeling very smug -- and not a
little relieved.
Anne Gerd's B&B, Samsund, Norway -- look it up. It's a home, not a hotel.
