Bergen, Norway, September 17th 2008. Rolled into Bergen on the tail-end of summer, catching what will perhaps be the city’s last nice day until Spring.  Bergen gets the most rain of all of Norway, I’m told.  Like Seattle, but blonde.  Spent most of my first day here taking advantage of the dwindling sun, walking my legs to their end, this way and that down one cobblestone street after another.

Sound Travels made its first mistake of the trip by resting on a bench near some playing schoolchildren and thinking it would be ok to record them.  Their teachers, concerned that I was some kind of hi-tech audio-pervert, helped me toward the conclusion that it was not ok.  I moved on, sheepishly.

My wonderful host in Bergen was a friend of my friend Anita, one Kristin Velle, she of the reddest hair of all of Norway, I’d wager.  Her son, Cornelius, easily claims the title of being my favorite 4 1/2 year old that I’ve met so far.  He taught me how to count to ten in Norwegian, and also how to say simple words, like the words for “tree,” “pear,” “tomato,” and “cucumber.”

In exchange, I taught him how to say, “I am a baked potato.”  You never know when such a phrase might come in handy.  If you’re a spy, for instance.

Kristin and Cornelius and Autumn showed me to my train this morning with leaves falling and wind blowing and gray, everywhere gray.