Tuesday 30 August 2022--Rain in Iceland is surely not unusual. I don't think I've ever seen it raining as hard as it is this morning, though. I was surprised to realize that it's been five years since I last passed through. I booked a short stay here last fall, intended to be my first post-pandemic trip. I canceled it, reluctantly, when the US State Department issued a travel advisory for Iceland (among other places); unnecessarily, I think, but I felt it important to follow guidance. Icelandair gave me a credit which I'm using now.

I'm surprised, too, at how much has changed in five years. Keflavík is bigger and busier than ever, and new construction is ongoing. There are remote boarding gantries now, and we are required to board a bus to get to the terminal itself. At least we don't have to deplane on an exposed stairway in the rain. Another change is that Icelandair's flights are now several hours later than they used to be; we are here mid-morning, rather than in the early gray twilight to which I was long accustomed, and will land in Bergen mid-afternoon. I suppose this is in response to complaints from North American passengers about arriving too early in European destinations to get into hotel rooms.

There is time for breakfast, and then we board another bus to the plane for Bergen, in the pouring rain. One of my fellow passengers notes a bag lying on the tarmac, far from anywhere, apparently having fallen off a luggage cart. "There's a vacation ruined," he says.

"What color is it?" I ask him.

"Red," he answers. Not mine.

Dropping through the clouds on the approach to Bergen, I get a view of a few of the bazillion islands that are scattered along the coast. Up until now, I've been feeling the peculiar mix of anxiety and boredom elicited by the nuts and bolts of travel; now, I feel the adrenaline rush of anticipation, the excitement of seeing far-off places. That's Norway down there. Norway.

There's a tram now from the airport into town. It takes about 45 minutes. I guess there's a bus that's faster, but I like trams, not least because you know the driver isn't going to make a wrong turn. (You may draw whatever conclusions you like about my apparent mistrust of bus drivers.) I read the names of every one of the twenty-seven stops--Birkelandsskiftet, Kokstad, Sandslimarka; Hop, Paradis, Fantoft; Danmarks Plass, Florida, Nygård--and take in the sight of various neighborhoods. Arrive at last at Byparken, in the center of town; walk the few blocks to Hotel Neptun, check in, and start to unpack. All of the clothes in my checked bag are damp--not soaked, but soggy. It might not have fallen off the cart at Keflavík, but it was out in the rain enough. Trash bags next time. I lay everything out across the furniture to dry, and go down for a nap.

I'm out in time to catch early evening light on the old warehouses of Bryggen, across the harbor. Pass through the fish market and go into Bergenhus Bryggeri, the brewpub, for a beer. The price of a glass is an eye-opener--it works out to about a dollar an ounce, a bit more than twice what I'd pay for a decent beer at home. I ask about getting dinner, but it's too busy. Grab a kebab instead, on my way over to Henrik Øl & Vinstove, which I've scouted as the best beer pub in town. It is that, with 55 taps, interesting beers from around Norway and Denmark. My only complaint is that there's no wifi, but if I sit by the window, I can hijack the signal from the 7-Eleven across the street. It would be better, of course, to strike up a conversation with one of the locals, but it's too crowded and noisy for that, and I am fairly fried, besides. I have one beer and retire.