0935. We've just taken off from Oslo airport on our way north. First stop: "The Paris of the North" - Tromsø. It's one hour 45 to this northern coastal town, which lies 186 miles inside the Arctic Circle.
Our journey does not end at Tromsø, however. We're going a little further north. After a one hour stop at Tromsø the plane - 24 rows and not quite 1/3 full - will continue: another 400 miles to 79 degrees north - just 500 miles shy of the North Pole.
As we ascend, we say our final goodbyes to the sun for the next several days - we're heading to Svalbard, in the realm of the Polar Night.
Svalbard is an archipelago under the Norwegian flag (although Russia's been allowed to keep its mining town on the islands). Spitsbergen, the largest island, was first put on the map in 1596 by Dutchman Willem Barents, who named it for the rugged peaks scattered across the landscape.
Our destination is Longyearbyen (pop. 1500), named after John Longyear, an American who opened Svalbard's first coal mine in 1906. While it was once strictly a mining town, the miners nowadays share the town with tourists - most of whom opt to visit during the long summer day, when they apparently overrun the streets. The Radisson SAS hotel chain caters to travellers all over Norway, including Longyearbyen, where they proudly boast of being the northernmost hotel in the world.
And why, you ask, are we headed towards the world's most northerly hotel - in midwinter? Four words: Northern Lights; Polar Bears. The latter thrive here - along with seagulls, walruses and reindeer. We've been advised by literature and websites that it is unlawful to leave the town limits without a gun, as the bears are beautiful but also hungry - and they do not discriminate between seals and people.
Of course, there's more to this trip than a desire to see bears (a good thing too, since we never found them!). I'm also drawn here because of my father - his polar career brought him to Spitsbergen at least once, accompanied by my mom. And Scott has always wanted to visit, a dream dating back his boyhood reading about polar exploration. And now we're on our way!
We drop our bags in the room and head to the bar for something a bit more substantial to eat (the flight from Heathrow offers only sandwiches and drinks for sale in economy class). We order a couple of aquavits, 2 bottles of Ringnes (the national beer) and a smørbrød - a slab of no-nonsense Norwegian bread smeared with butter. It's what's on top that makes it special - lovely pink sliced roast beef folded like a big fat rose, nestled on top of boiled potato slices and smothered in a creme fraiche. This all sits on top of the freshest curley red lettuce. Garni with a thin slice of pickled cucumber. Now that's a open-faced sandwich. Skoal.
In fact, we like it so much we try the prawn version next, and it too is supremely tasty. There's even a dollop of the tiniest caviar for The Boy - to placate him after his disappointment with the presence of mayonnaise. This mayonnaise, however, isn't the slimey stuff Scott thinks he hates. This is pure egg yoke and olive oil - just like cousin Martha made in Normandy. He's not convinced, which happily means I get most of what's on the plate! After this mid-afternoon snack we return to the room for a short nap and then return to the restaurant for serious dinner food.
Now listen: when you're in cold country, you have to keep your fuel intake high in order to help the metabolism keep the body from freezing. Anyway, that's our excuse for pigging out on this trip.
I have a plate of pork done 3 different ways. This will prove to be the most-ordered menu item on this trip. It's a very traditional Norwegian Christmas dish: pork belly, pork sausage and pork quenelles. These are accompanied by prim little boiled potatoes and red cabbage garnished with stewed prunes and a thick tasty gravy.
Scott has found a nice red wine to accompany his roast fillet of beef.
Now it is time for beddy bye.
The phone rings at 0715 this morning, giving us plenty of time to check in for this flight north.
| We learned later that, although wine and beer seem to be widely consumed at all hours, spirits are never available before 1pm. While sometimes mildly annoying, this stringent alcohol control is understandable in the far north, where the cold and the constant winter darkness could easily invite round-the-clock drinking. |
As we look onto the tarmac, it begins to snow. Soft, big flakes. By the time we reboard, the snow is coming down hard. Planes are being de-iced and runways are plowed and plowed again. We take off in a blizzard, then climb above the clouds once again. There's just barely a pink tinge on the southwestern horizon while the moon shines brightly out the right-hand window.
Champagne and vodka are available.
The farther north we travel the darker it gets. In Tromsø the winter blue playing off the white snow created a beautiful colour of wintry twilight, but I'm afraid it'll just be black up north. Oh well, thank goodness for electricity.
We grab our bags and head out into the night for a taxi and a 10 minute ride to the Radisson Polar Hotel. Our taxi driver is a little short on English but he's garrulous just the same and happy to point out many 'areas of interest' - the mine, the universiity (yes, this here's a college town!) and the church up on the hill side next to Governor Odd Olsen Ingero's house.
We arrive at the hotel. Inside the first door is a mosaic in the floor - a map of the northern hemisphere with the North Pole smack in the center. A sign by the door opening into the lobby proper says "We hope our guests practice Svalbard's tradition of taking their shoes off before entering," with an arrow pointing off to the mud room/cloak room. We comply. When we're ready to enter said lobby, we notice the other sign.
I'm a little surprised at how un-light the hotel's main space is. The vaulted ceiling soars over the check-in desk and gift shop, a small bar seating area and a large dining area. The flagstone fireplace is dark. The windows are dark (although the north wall windows are dusted at the edges with snow and there are giant, gingerbread hearts hanging from red ribbons which say god jul (merry Christmas). What bugs me is that they don't every change the lighting scheme no matter what time of 'day' it is - it always feels like cocktail hour!
The grocery store is open - it's a big supermarket really. Reminds me of the big markets in Jackson Hole. And a stretch limosine service is available if required, although it looks like there's not been much call for it this winter.
The place looks old and it's made of wood - wood floors, wood walls, wood ceilings, wood tables and benches, wood wood wood. All the seats and benches are covered in reindeer hide. The bar stools are made of the iron braces that hold up mine shafts - the horizontal kind. Scott figures this out from a mural painted on the wall depicting a prone miner pick-axing away at a coal vein just above his head. He's lying next to a red and black device bracing up the ceiling.
The pub has an interesting secondary theme (apart from the wood, that is.) I don't know what KROA means, but behind the bar on a corner liquor display is a larger than life sized bust of Vladimir Illych Ulianov, "author, stateman and father of modern communism," according to Monty Python. On another wall nearby there is a wood or copper bas-relief of Lenin, Engels and Marx. The intent seems to be to recognise the Russian heritage of the island in a semi-ironic way.
On still another wall are 21 old photographs of the people of historic Spitsbergen, including Amundsen and his rival Nobile. What's more interesting is that in the same photo, taken in 1926, are some other famous polar explorers and seamen: Larsen and Ellsworth.
Yet another set of photos is of the first female hunter in Spitsbergen - Wanny Wolstad, who wintered over 5 seasons in the 1930s. A display recounting her exploits also graces the wall of our hotel room.
 |  |
The pub is sparsely populated when we arrive - just a few young men eating a late lunch.
On the telly there's a game of netball: Hungary v Russia. Scott educates me on this popular northern European game. It's played by women on an indoor court about the size of a basketball court. It's roughly a cross between soccer and basketball although there's no kicking of the ball at all. The size of the ball is somewhere between a softball and a basketball - easily gripped in one hand by a woman. TB discovers that what we're watching is one of the finals in the women's European championships. It's for the bronze medal - the game for the gold, between Norway and Denmark, follows immediately.
Coincidentally - or perhaps because of the upcoming game - the pub begins to fill up, mostly with families with small children. Normally this would make us flee, but theses kids seem to be well-behaved. No tantrums, just running around the roomy floor.
| Our observations indicate that the Svalbardians - and Norwegians in general - are maintaining a healthy rate of reproduction. While we were at first surprised to see so many young children in this remote outpost, a moment's reflection (and a look outside at the cold, snowy darkness) made the reasons for this phenomenon obvious. |
A popular treat we have discovered in Norway is chili peanuts. We found them in the bar at the ariport hotel in Oslo and in our hotel room here in Longyearbyen. We find them also here at KROA.
We order two more 1/2 litres of beer to watch the important game between Norway and Denmark. It's a close game for all 60 minutes but Norway pulls away to win the gold 28-25.
We head home at 6 to shower and ready ourselves for dinner.
We have a table reserved at the great vaulted window in the corner. This part of the hotel reminds me of the Jackson Lake Lodge windows. In summer I bet the views are something! We are attended by a lively and unusually emotional Norwegian male - big, beefy and bald. He is put out by "his Kitchen" because they don't have two things available we've ordered. Actually three: the Bollinger champagne is a no go, as is the grouse starter and the traditional pork Christmas dish.
We're serene about these minor set-backs: we get the Veuve instead; I get the smoked salmon; and the kitchen makes up an interesting derivation of the pork dinner. In fact the only thing that changes is the pork belly is replaced by lamb ribs. My favorite pork sausages and patties remain and all is very tasty.
Scott starts with ...
ANYONE FROM PETA, GREENPEACE OR THEIR SYMPATHISERS - STOP READING RIGHT NOW!
(PAUSE)
(Are they gone?)
Anyone left?
Yes - Scott starts with smoked whale. Thin slices of a brown sort of pastrami looking thing.
He claims that it's not bad at all - and nor is his main dish of duck.
We end up with a couple of snifters of VERY old Calvados. If we are to believe our waiter (Michael is Danish, not Norwegian, as we find out later) this Calva was barrelled to celebrate the liberation of France in 1945. I find it less smooth than our favorite bootleg Goutte de Giverny so I gift it to TB.
We retire.
Of a sorts.
I can't tell you exactly what time we turned out lights. I remember getting up around 0400 to turn out lights Scott left on. I remember getting up around 0745 for loo break - all still dark of course. And with these technologically advanced ear plugs - it's all the same: dark and quiet.
Monday, 20 December