Finding Warmth in Scandinavia

“This is my seat, yours should be up there.” We rushed onto the train along with hundreds of others on what is doubtless one of the most popular train journeys in Norway. That, along with last minute planning, is probably why mom and I weren’t seated together. 

Norway in a nutshell stretches over five hours from Oslo to Bergen, climbing through birch forest and alpine plateau, and involves crossing fjords by ferry, spotting waterfalls by historic train, and catching a bus through picturesque villages. This was the first leg of the journey in a more standard, modern train to Myrdal.

For once we weren’t late, so we boarded in an orderly manner, stored our luggage at the beginning of the train car and launched our backpacks over the seats into the storage area. I crammed into my assigned seat, surrounded by a foreign family, whose language I couldn’t even make out.

I probably stood out just as much, with my dark curly hair and ladybug-print sweater, in a country of such uniform, quietly effortless beauty. Oslo had been a revelation in that regard, its streets populated by people of model like stature and looks, dressed in what we’ve only recently started calling “quiet luxury,” though Norwegians have apparently been doing it for decades.

I could hear my mom’s laugh at the other end of the car. At least she was having a fun time with her seat mates, it was going to be a long five hours for me. After a few minutes the train promptly left, according to schedule, and we were on our way to leaving Oslo behind for the countryside.

My mom soon came up to me, “We have an extra seat, want to come over?” Happily, I moved over to the ‘fun side.’ The pair that had been entertaining my mom were two women that were traveling for a company retreat in the mountains. The younger one was bubbly and bohemian, a yoga instructor, whose choice of outerwear for this trip was only a single heavy coat. The older one chastised her- “why didn’t you ask me what to bring?” The coat was entirely unnecessary for what was probably the last warm weekend of the year, with blue skies and temperatures in the low seventies during the day. 

She then began to sing the praises of the material that her entire outfit consisted of, wool. Temperature regulating, odor resistant, and quick drying- I was after anything in this miracle fabric for the rest of the trip. To be fair, the day started out foggy and gray, so I could see how someone could grab their heavy jacket while running out to catch this early train. 

Between the dim outside and the gentle rock of the train, I found myself starting to fall asleep. Once the drowsy feeling started setting in, I was suddenly jolted awake by a shot of sunshine beaming through the windows as we came out of a tunnel. So the forecast was right, looks like we’ll be getting the views that we were promised after all. 

Norway’s landscape, it should be said, requires adjustment of expectation. Spoiled by Switzerland and the Rockies, I did not find what I would call mountains. The terrain is ancient and rounded, stripped above the tree line, more elemental than dramatic. “Just a lot of rocks,” our companion commented, which is technically accurate and somehow not reductive at all.

Hills was a technical term for a lot of what we saw in Norway, which could be underwhelming for some. It certainly was for the Canadian couple we met on a fjord cruise later that day. They were from the Banff area, which is undeniably beautiful and dramatic, so it wasn’t quite worth it to brave the outdoors on the boat for a better look at the scenery. The large windows suited them fine. Great for us. They watched our things a few minutes while we went outside to get close to the waterfall the boat was approaching. 

What the landscape lacks in vertical ambition, it compensates for in accessibility: Norwegians, apparently, go hiking after work like it’s no big deal. I saw the proof in Oslo, with people pouring into the streets in the afternoon, off to go kayaking or running after a day of work. The culture of outdoor movement isn’t aspirational, it simply is.

Our travel companion began to show us just where we were on the map. The more she explained, the more I realized that she had probably walked the entirety of the journey which we were taking by rail. 

She had done what most people only mean to do: she had actually explored her country. Not tourist-Norway, but all of it — the unnamed towns between the named ones, the trails that don’t appear in any guidebook, the alpine lakes fed by snowmelt that she apparently thinks nothing of swimming in on a Sunday. As we rolled through the landscape, she narrated with the easy authority of someone reading from memory. 

Winding paths came into view, which she had biked before and highly recommended. Bikers appeared practically on cue. A particularly interesting peak appeared- oh she hiked that too. A blanket of white appeared on the horizon, “Is that snow?” That’s the glacier she replied. My mom was astonished and excited; it was her very first time seeing a glacier. We continued going through towns that weren’t in any of the guides or itineraries, and yet she knew an interesting trail or activity at all of them. My heart skipped a beat when we got to the ski towns, one of my favorite sports, and I mentally vowed to return in the winter. 

When we told her one of our next stops on the trip was Tromso, I was astonished that she likes to take the train to get there. I don’t know anyone who would rather ride a train through neighboring Sweden for 20 hours instead of take a two hour flight to get to the Arctic Circle. That’s just how they do it here. I learned that the younger woman was from Sweden, now living in Norway, and she too mainly uses trains to explore Scandinavia.

This train did make a few stops, where at each one I nervously held my breath, waiting for someone to demand their seat. Eventually someone did, but it could not have gone smoother. The women briefly explained the situation in Norwegian to her, and she was all to happy to comply, just asking for my seat number so she could swap. “Wow, she was very nice,” remarked the older woman, putting into words how I thought the tone of their conversation went and the stark contrast to how I thought it might go. 

As we passed a small alpine lake, she exclaimed, “Oh I was just there with my nieces last weekend for a swim!” The Floridian in me shivered at just the thought of going in these snow fed lakes. A hot tub or sauna in proximity is definitely required for me to do a polar plunge like that. Of course I did do that just two days later, in a marina in Bergen.

Surrounded by locals talking and relaxing, it was not the quiet and meditative experience I expected, and I loved it. The kind sauna master didn’t speak much English, but she was determined to walk us through the ritual correctly, every step, with patience and warmth and evident pride. The scar across her stomach alluded to a trial, but she only spoke of her memories of a trip to Thailand, the warmest place she could think of when we revealed where we were from. 

We met others who had come to Norway — from the Philippines, from Brazil, from Colombia — initially for the free university education, and then stayed. Of course they stayed, they told us, with the slightly amused tone of people who have already done the math: the economy, the safety, the quality of life.  I realized I should have considered going to Norway for university while they were encouraging it. How was I to know there was more to it than Frozen?

The traditional dress you see in the movies still runs strong though. The women on the train explained how each town and region has their specific form of traditional dress with variations in the embroidery and silhouettes. They looked up images to show us the differences and find examples of what their personal ones look like. While only brought out for special occasions and national holidays, the traditional costumes are cherished family heirlooms. There is something quietly moving about a country that dresses up, together, and means it.

Their stop was the one before ours, so I quickly exchanged contact information with them, not wanting the unofficial guided tour to end and hoping I would one day return to explore more off the beaten track. The journey from Oslo to Myrdal was more than just a scenic ride. Thanks to our companions, it was an education in what makes Norwegians unique. 

After they left, the sun shifted and the car grew warm — uncomfortably, inexplicably warm.  I took off my sweater and draped it over my shoulders. Now, down to my cami and jeans, I was getting a tan through the train window in Norway. Why was it so hot? I looked down at the sweater content label, 92% acrylic.

Norway, it turns out, is not nearly as cold as its reputation suggests. And neither, I found, are its people.