A Tundra Tale

 I haven't blogged in two months because of being away for five weeks and now plunging into the swing of summer.  Ann and I traveled in Norway for three-plus weeks, a few more days in Stockholm, and then I went fishing in British Columbia.  More on all that to come along; in the meantime, here's a vignette on traveling with Ms. Ann in far off lands . . . .

So, after a breathtaking hour's drive from Moskenes in the magic light of an early June Arctic evening, and that after a three and a half hour ferry from the mainland, we pull into Anne Gerd's B&B, the best in Norway's Lofoten Islands according to TripAdvisor -- I'm a great believer in TripAdvisor, and a prolific contributor, too; it's a compulsion to praise or trash places we've visited. 

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.