Readers may remember that I had a series last year entitled “Up in Norway.” Well, I’m ripping off the title for today’s column. Actually, I ripped off, or semi-ripped off, the title from Hemingway, who wrote a story called “Up in Michigan.” Remember?

Last week, and the week before, we published on this site an “Oslo Journal,” which reported and commented on the Oslo Freedom Forum. To see that journal, consult my archive, here. (Such a grandiose word, “archive.”)

The conference over, I took a trip into deep Norway. There’s a little journey you can sign up for called “Norway in a Nutshell.” Dorkiest name in traveldom; but a seriously wonderful trip. They say that the train from Oslo to Bergen, via Flam and a couple of other places, is one of the most beautiful, stunning, and inspiring train trips in the world.

They are not to be argued with . . .

‐On my way to the Oslo train station, I see something really strange. “Totally random,” to use a modern phrase. A marching band is assembled in the middle of the street, about to begin a rehearsal. That’s not so strange, I guess. But it’s 7:20 in the morning.

They’re in full regalia, this band. And, in addition to the musicians, there are baton twirlers. One grim man, in front of them all, holds a flagstick and stares straight ahead.

At 7:20, the band absolutely lets ’er rip. It’s loud, unapologetic, and startling. They are playing a pop song, which I can’t recognize. It sounds a little like “I can’t smile without you. I can’t smile without you . . .”

I find all this thrilling and otherworldly, given the hour. A deafening marching band, in the calm and orderly streets of Oslo, at 7:20 in the morning. Those sleeping may not find it so thrilling, however.

(In all likelihood, the band was rehearsing for Constitution Day — essentially the Norwegian Fourth of July — a few days off.)

‐On the train, a female voice over the p.-a. says something charming — inadvertently charming. She says, Watch out for thieves, because in recent times there have been some “stealings.”

‐Isn’t “p.-a.” a weird, wrong-seeming abbreviation? But who can argue with the all-knowing, all-deciding Dictionary.com?

‐You’re riding along for a couple of hours — I lose track of the time — and, all of a sudden, snow. You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or at least, it has snowed in Kansas. Things seem to change — to get more severe, more dramatic — so fast.

‐I think of an old license plate (do they still have it?): “Wild, Wonderful West Virginia.” Well, Norway is “wild and wonderful” too. It lives up to its billing; it justifies, or surpasses, the hype. Words are so poor — at least any that I can summon. I’ve seen some pretty dramatic landscapes in my life. But, holy mackerel . . .

‐A snack called Lefsa is a nice discovery — a little like a cinnamon crêpe.

‐Later en route, I order a slice of pizza — which is served with two packets of Heinz ketchup. Really. Is it because I’m americano — or do they gives those to everyone?

‐At Myrdal — in Norway now, not Sweden — I of course think of Gunnar and Alva. Many thought that Reagan, Friedman, et al. had finished off their ideas; but you can’t quite finish them off, you know? The forces of collectivism, unilateral disarmament, social engineering, and the like are ever at work . . .

‐Before coming to Norway, I was on the National Review cruise, along the Seine. (For my “Cruise Journal,” consult my archive at May 9 and 10.) In Normandy, we were told that grass roofs came from the Vikings. And, here in Viking Land, I see just that (just those?): grass roofs.

‐As I travel through the land, I see names I recognize: for example, Lund. And Voss. I knew Lunds and Vosses back in Ann Arbor, when I was growing up. I also see the name Rokne. The man we knew as “Knute Rockne” (All American) started out as “Knut Rokne,” right? (And he started out in Voss — Voss, Norway.)

‐Last year, like a little kid, I wrote about an ad I spotted in Oslo. This was a print ad — a poster — that showed a beautiful woman in mid-stride. The effect was slightly spoiled, for me, by the text — which included the words “full fart” (meaning a sprint).

Well, I spot the ad again: and, again, like an incorrigible kid, chortle a little.

‐Waterfalls are everywhere, absolutely everywhere — dramatic ones, too. There seem to be as many waterfalls in Norway as there are rocks. And one thing about a waterfall, an especially powerful one? It’s so loud. Talk about “white noise.”

‐There are pros and cons when it comes to picture-taking. Pictures afterward can be wonderful, needless to say. But, when you take pictures, can you really enjoy the trip? If the impulse is to record everything: can you really take it in while you’re experiencing it? Maybe you can. I’m sure it depends on the person and his outlook.

I remember once when I was standing with my grandmother outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. She was blocked by many, many picture-takers. I heard her mutter, “They want to see it later. I want to see it now.”

‐On a little ship in a fjord there are people from all over the world: literally, from every corner. Kind of nice: all those people, from disparate parts, stemming from different races, speaking different tongues, gathered on that little vessel, in the far north of Europe. When did that start happening in human history? Very recently.

The Spanish-speaking kids, like Spanish-speaking kids, and Spanish-speaking people, everywhere, say, “Mira, mira!”

‐When hearing a snarky remark or two about America, I have this thought: “I’ll really miss hearing these remarks, if they disappear. Because that will mean that America is not on top anymore — not worth snarking about. I mean, who snarks about, say, Botswana?”

‐Gudvangen, like other points along this journey, features high, dramatic cliffs. Our group is told, “You get eleven seconds of free fall before you have to open your parachute.”

Something tells me I might open it a second or two sooner . . .

‐Bergen is Norway’s former capital and its “second city” — the Chicago of Norway, if you will. But this city has not so much big shoulders as slender ones. Incredibly pretty, Bergen. But not a doll’s house, not a doll’s town. Do you know what I mean? It looks lived in.

There are some living rooms that look so perfect, you don’t want to sit down. You don’t want to muss up a couch or chair. Other living rooms are beautiful, splendid, exquisite — but you can sit down in them.

That’s the way I feel about Bergen.

‐This is Grieg’s town, and I’m pleased to see that there’s a street named after his wife, Nina — a singer. Also the composer’s, her husband’s, first cousin. (I’m not snarking, just noting.)

‐I see a group of schoolkids, walking gaily along a street. Chattering away, of course. Maybe 80 percent are South Asian, or Middle Eastern, or North African. Are they Norwegian kids? Will they grow up Norwegian? I do hope so.

Huge, huge question here, not to be swept under the rug (unless you want a misshapen and problematic rug).

‐The Griegs’ home, outside Bergen, is called Troldhaugen. Do you know his piano piece “Wedding Day at Troldhaugen”? Imaginative, delightsome, irresistible thing. I’ve always thought that the March of the Siamese Children, from Richard Rodgers’s King and I, owes something to it.

(I’m not meaning to leave Hammerstein out of The King and I. It’s just that the march is purely musical, no words.)

‐I’ve seen a few composing huts in my time. (In previous eras, most composers, or many a composer, had one.) But Grieg’s at Troldhaugen: ideal. If you can’t compose in it, you probably can’t compose . . .

‐I like to think of Grieg, fishing in the fjord — which he did. A nice break from composing. (Or did his composing constitute a break from fishing?)

‐I have a funny encounter in Bergen, illustrative of the deeply ingrained pacifism of contemporary Norwegians. A man tells me how much he’ll enjoy the bands on Constitution Day. But, alarmed that I might get the wrong impression, he adds, “There’s nothing violent or militarist about these bands, you know. It’s just music.”

I assure him it’s all right . . .

‐Back in Oslo, I meet a friend of mine: a native Norwegian who has long lived and worked in the capital. He says how much he likes the Danish capital, Copenhagen. I ask him why. He says, “For one thing, I feel like I’m in Europe. Really in Europe.” “You don’t feel that way in Oslo?” I say. He replies, “No, here in Norway, we’re on the outskirts, on the fringes. Remote from everything. I feel that way.”

Interesting. I have not heard that point made before.

‐Going through security at the Oslo airport, I cause the thing to sound — to beep. A young Somalian “TSA worker” finds that it’s the passport in my back pocket. When I produce it, he says, brightly, “Oh, the United State of America!” He is playful, amusing, and, I think, impressed, all at the same time. His slightly older co-worker, also Somalian, issues a correction: “United States of America. It’s a big country.”

I just loved this episode. I hope I have conveyed a sense. And I thank you for joining me, up in Norway. Catch you soon.

#JAYBOOK#