Helpful Norwegians and a forest of signs that is second to none

Date:
28.08.2020 until 29.08.2020

Day: 026 – 027

Country:
Norway

Location:
In front of the school

Daily kilometers:
160 km

Total kilometers:
2825 km

Soil condition:
Asphalt

Bridge crossings:
1

Tunnel passages:
11

Sunrise:
06:20 a.m.

Sunset:
8:54 pm

Temperature day max:
17°

Night temperature min:
11°

Departure:
12:00 p.m.

Arrival time:
22:00

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“It was a great day yesterday,” Tanja greets the new morning. “After all the sightseeing over the last few weeks, this was a bit of an adventure again,” I agree with her. “Fortunately, everything went well.” “Yes, thankfully.” As I get out of bed, I even feel a little muscle ache. We have breakfast in a good mood. Then we leave the lake and go to a shopping center in the next town to buy salmon, potatoes etc. for Tanja’s birthday. In order to find a free parking space, we wind our way through the streets for a while. “Not a chance,” I say, annoyed. “There’s a large parking lot next to the shopping center,” Tanja navigates me. “You can even stand there for an hour free of charge.” Tanja is about to leave the Terra when an elderly gentleman knocks on the window. I roll down the window to ask what he wants. “Here you have a parking ticket. It’s valid for one hour and costs nothing. I thought you might not know how to get it from the machine and if you don’t put it visibly on the dashboard, one of the parking attendants will fine you immediately.” “That’s really very kind of you,” I say thankfully. “I’m happy to do that. As a foreigner, you don’t know what all the signs say and the vending machines here are in Norwegian,” he explains and says goodbye.

We use the free WLAN at a petrol station. “Maybe it’s more pleasant in there than in one of the fast food restaurants,” I consider. In fact, there is a small seating area next to the entrance. “Sockets, Wi-Fi and table. Everything we need is there,” I say happily. Although I never eat hamburgers and the like, I order one. “Well, you’re brave,” wonders Tanja. “It looks so delicious on the advertising poster. I’m sure it’s not bad,” I justify myself. Then I buy another cup for €20. This gives you as much cappuccino as you want for a year. “A great petrol station chain,” I continue to rejoice in the best of moods, having finally escaped the constant beeping and sometimes sticky floors. Just five minutes later, the friendly girl behind the counter serves me the highly praised hamburger, which has little in common with the poster image. “Hi, hi, hi. Bon appétit,” Tanja giggles cautiously. As soon as I take my first bite, I think of the poor pig that had to give its life for it. On the second bite, I realize that the foul-tasting hunk of meat in there is half raw. “Whooooo,” I shudder. “That was predictable,” I hear Tanja say. I take the puffed white flour hamburger with its raw pork inlay to the counter. “Can you please put him in the pan again. It’s still bloody.” “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I’ll make you a new one right away.” “Not necessary. Just put it between the heating jaws there again,” I reply, pointing at the appliance. “No can do, it’s got cheese in it, I can’t put it on the hot plates again. I’ll make them a delicious new one,” she says, throws mine in the garbage can and takes a frozen slice of meat out of the plastic packaging. “What was I thinking when I ordered something like this?” I think to myself. A little later, Sindy, as the young woman is called, brings me her new creation, which looks just like its predecessor. This time a little cautiously, I take a bite of the highly praised. The meat is now cooked, but still tastes terrible. The coarse onions, which are supposed to round off the flavor, are extremely sharp, so that my esophagus calls for help as they slip through. The cheese is certainly an artificial product because it doesn’t really taste like cheese and the tomato probably comes from a Dutch greenhouse. “Wuuuäähh,” I say after the third bite, placing the five-euro, hideous piece on its side. “I’m cured for the rest of my life,” I say in disgust. It’s a mystery to me why people like this. What’s more, our fellow pigs have to grow up in appalling conditions. Considering that they are pumped with growth hormones and antibiotics in order to be loaded onto one of the miserable animal transports as quickly as possible, only to end up on such a disgusting hamburger.

In the early evening, we drive into one of the many tunnels that bore through entire mountains or even connect islands. When we come out on the other side, it’s dark. In front of the famous tourist attraction, the Breikestolen, a natural rock platform that we want to climb tomorrow, we look for a pitch for the night. As is so often the case, parking is prohibited in the region and travelers are forced to park at one of the campsites. “There’s still a space available!” Tanja calls out as we pass a parking bay in the darkness of the night. “Not a good place,” I decide, driving on in a fraction of a second. We turn left. The narrow road winds upwards. No stopping signs on the left and right. “It must be really bad here in the high season. I think the authorities can only save themselves with this forest of signs,” I ponder. Then I decide to turn back. “We’ll just drive along the main road for a few more kilometers until we find a parking bay. There’s bound to be one at some point. It’s only a matter of time,” I conclude. Kilometer after kilometer we drive on, but it’s as if we’ve been bewitched: suddenly there’s not the slightest possibility on this road, not even the smallest bay, to park for the night. “Here’s something,” I say, spontaneously putting on the blinker and turning left. “What’s there supposed to be. It’s just a tiny little road that leads to a tiny little harbor,” Tanja replies. “Well, who knows, maybe we’ll find a pitch for the night at the tiny little harbor,” I reply. “I don’t think so.” “Anyway, if you don’t try, you won’t find anything,” I say, steering the Terra down the narrow winding road. Once at the bottom, we are surprised by a forest of signs prohibiting parking at any angle. “The Norwegians seem to be suffering from aggressive overtourism, or they’re over-regulating themselves,” I say in frustration. We turn up the asphalt road again and continue our search on the main road until we reach a village 20 kilometers further on and find a spot in front of the village school without any prohibition signs. “We’ll stay here,” I decide, dead tired. “Looks good,” Tanja is visibly relieved…