Testing the Adventure Scale
Catching a bus on the outskirts of a Norwegian village doesn’t immediately leap to mind when thinking about risky travel moves, but mindset is everything. And travel always gives us the opportunity to discover where we land — between the extremes of Alex Honnold and couch-surfing next-door-neighbor — on the adventuring scale. Which is how I justify my misadventure.
My heart keeps pace with the speed of the frost-laced fields racing past my peripheral vision. I find myself pondering if I’m on my way to disappearing — a valid concern for any paranoid, overly-dramatic traveler obsessed with Scandinavian Netflix series. So I keep my eyes squarely on the back of my would-be serial killer’s head.
He is a Viking. Or, (possibly) more accurately, a male bus driver of Viking descent. He has said to get onto the empty bus. Going in the wrong direction. He doesn’t brandish a club or drag me onboard by my hair, but I follow his directions, nonetheless. I am a sucker. And, now, I find myself hurtling into the unknown.
Even more absurdly, I ignore the mandatory seatbelt rule.
Leaps of Faith
That’s what happens when you travel — you take leaps of faith. Actions that would normally not garner a moment’s pause suddenly become somewhat daunting. The kindness of strangers is your lifeline.
I am completely disoriented, with no idea where I am or where I’m heading. And no way of communicating with anything more than hand gestures, big eyes and a smile.
Do not ever underestimate the power of a smile when in foreign territory.
The cellphone gripped in my hand is useless for anything but a snapshot of my impending pre-sacrifice ceremony. There is none of the mysterious WiFi mojo we all now take for granted. My eight hours of self-defense training, acquired in a Burbank, California studio, are entirely iced over in the furthest reaches of my brain.
Perhaps is wasn’t such a good idea to tour of the Viking Ship Museum yesterday. Or get so deeply into Nordic mysticism with my hostess last night. And those fantasies about mixing it up with the brutal, axe-wielding Travis Fimmel are definitely not helping me maintain equilibrium.
Travel and the Comfort Zone
Traveling, at its best, stretches us past our comfort zone. It is different from vacation. It tests our notions of unquestioned values, habitual behaviors, invisible judgements. We’re brought face-to-face with our illusions of, and need for, control. Our assumptions, expectations and limitations show up.
Those things we’re taught as children we mustn’t do — talk to strangers, get lost, ask for help, eat the candy when it’s offered, get on an empty bus that’s going in the wrong direction — are the very things that make the best travel memories. Because they put us on the edge.
That edge is everything. It gets me to notice the melting frost on the bus window. The fog lifting over the pines. The melody my Viking bus driver is humming. The similarities of this place to others in which I’ve been. And the differences.
The bus suddenly stops. This could be the end of the road for me.
The door swings open, letting in a blast of frigid early-morning air. And an old man. He smiles at me in greeting, recognizing a human soul in the face of a stranger in a strange land.
We both say, “hi.”