Color-man, 11 June, Germany

We've been on trains, buses, and ferries for two days now. Across from me a blonde-haired, blue-eyed fellow stares longingly into his blonde-haired, blue-eyed sweetheart. They're both Swedish and earthy. They nurse between them a large bottle of "Gammel Dansk" liquor and a couple Carlsbergs. Chattering to each other in Swedish, then to us in English, we learn that they are eloping to Berlin. Fascinating. They left Sweden yesterday with 4-weeks pass on the rails and no plans. Such is the European way. I wonder whether their guidance counsellors in high school ever mentioned 4-year plans or other paths to success.

Last night we caught the 2 o'clock express from Gotheberg to Kopenhavn. It was a night of little sleep for me, sardined in a tight bus seat. Though the hours of travel are tiring, they provide precious time to think, especially with Sigur Ros's Takk soothing my cerebellum.

I've just filched a cup of tea from the first class cabin. Just yesterday I read a short biography on Ghandi, who refused to ride 1st class trains when offered by religious figures and dignitaries. Instead, he always preferred to travel 3rd class, showing favor to no man, least of all himself.

At any rate, Eurail doesn't serve tea or treats to us "Untouchables" in second class. Though there's much to learn from the great Mahatma, I'm not quite so humble, and this stolen tea tastes good. “Stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.” Soothing juices clear my head of the smoke and heat in this cabin. I won't wax poetic though; ask Brian Gillikin for some tea poetry if you're unenlightened.

We have been remarkably safe on this trip so far. Tales of adventure are usually full of evils, horrors, sloughs and snares. Somehow, we've avoided them so far. Tolkien says in The Hobbit, "Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about...while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome may make a good tale, and take a good deal of telling anyway." We may not have any gruesome tales, yet, but I promise that even here in the comfort of Europe, our minds are being shaped daily. The greatest joy for me here has been digging into the Word. It's a fresh spring, and always a new adventure.

Drew

Color-man, 10 June, Somewhere between Bergen and Oslo, North Norway

Efficiency is an act. Ironically, being efficient means not worrying too much about the organization of time. It is will following action--the last confirming the first. In simple terms, efficiency in all things is putting one foot in front of the other. In writing, as my mom says, it is laying one word after the next, ceaselessly. And when at last you must cease, you pick up another thread- working, reading, discussing, arguing, loving--actively. On our trip, I've thought a lot about the concept of efficiency. How do I make the most out of this remarkable time that I've been given? I've always hoped to transform the world, but there is no greater danger than to remain in that hope without action. It turns sour. It becomes dissatisfaction with something unattainable, leading to apathy. This is frightening. It's horrible. I catch myself in this very apathy, and realize that I am emptied; my mind is blank and I don't want to work, think, or do anything. It is there that we are most vulnerable. I want to avoid becoming like the Russia's high class that Leo Tolstoy described, who had all the time and money in the world, but found no joy because they were bored: "...in reality almost all the feelings of our class amount to but three very insignificant and simple feelings--the feeling of pride, the feeling of sexual desire, and the feeling of weariness of life." This is why the peasant, working life was so appealing to him, and is to me. Putting one foot in front of the other, looking forward eagle-eyed, leaves little room for such feelings. Besides those who do it out of necessity, there are two other types of people who work tirelessly and avoid those three deadly and numbing feelings. Our Norwegian friend Glenn is of the first type. He lives a life guided by moral and ethical principles. In return, God blesses him, though Glenn may not be leaning on His grace. Glenn has an open mind and good judgment. He's been blessed financially and works towards his ideals with these tools. He's often successful. Such a person is remarkably strong. I don't understand their motivation to do good. They are continually satisfied with their work, perservering even unto old age. The final group of people has the most reason to work without ceasing. Christians--those redeemed by the blood of Christ and leaning in His grace--have great reason to live, work, and hope. It is our calling to do so, and it brings us great joy. More than this, we have an inheritance waiting for us. So I must continue to write, and to learn. and to work, and to keep my eyes open, pressing on towards that inheritance. Drew

Action-man, 10 June, Kobenhavn, Denmark

We took a bus through the night from Goteburg to Copenhagen. The seat made my head and legs and neck uncomfortable. At 2:00 AM, Kent, a fat Swede with a mustache twirled on the end, explained that we were stand-by.

Now, I sit in a chair at a table in a plaza near downtown Copenhagen. Three wicker chairs circle each wooden table, across a pavement of bricks. The bricks are wide and bits of grass grow between with cigarette butts. Two tables near me are full of college-aged girls. They're taking their time with half-finished plates of Sunday dinner. They look wealthy and one has a bull-dog on a leash. They drink and chat in Danish.

Beyond the tables is a fountain, carved with ugly Norse heads. From their mouths comes the water. Five or six men and women sit there, smoking and drinking, still sloshed from Saturday night. To my right is Drew, stretched out for a nap with his big baggage and mine at his feet. He could pass for a vagrant too.

Drew and I went to church this morning. The bell in the tower rang as 10:00 approached. On both sides of the sanctuary were statues of the apostles. Paulus and Petrus bearded, Johannes with a young and lovely face. Gold candles at the end of the pews glowed the whole service. The preacher wore lovely robes, one blue, one white and gold. He baptized a baby girl, who wore a long, white gown. We took communion, and it was very good. After the service, I asked a kind-looking woman if we could eat Sunday dinner with her or someone else. She went to inquire and returned saying, "I'm sorry we can't help you. It's not the Danish way. We're closed." Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes seem a quiet and secure people. Now I can hear jazz from a window in the top of that building. How nice.

Sam

Action-man, 8 June, Preikestolen, Norway

My hands smell like roots and tree bark and moss. We are on our way home from climbing Preikestolen fjord. I write in the back seat of Glenn's BMW.

Glenn, Drew, and I left the house in Skudeneshavn this morning at 6:10 for a 6:10 ferry. Glenn sped, risking his license, and we arrived moments before the ship launched. Glenn brought breakfast, and we sat near some men who work with oil in the North Sea. Glenn told us that oil saved Norway. Before World War II, Norway was a poor country. Even Brazil sent gifts to help.

Glenn is good at talking with strangers; therefore, he has friends all over the world. We are a case in point. He has spent hundreds of Norwegian Kroners on us. Glenn is attent to every detail of our comfort--the volume in his car, the air conditioning, our beds, breakfast, wake-up time. Glenn is also a good thinker. He reads and travels a lot, but most importantly, he listens and asks good questions.

We took two ferries. The roads to lonely Preikestolen became more and more narrow. The tunneled passages outnumbered the open road. Beautiful bridges with double arches help connect the rugged west coast of Norway. We hiked for two hours, climbing steep banks and over boulders. We crossed plains of rock that looked like the Giants' battlefield in the Silver Chair. We walked on the brim of dark pools of mountain water. We crossed marshy spots on wooden walkways. We didn't see any wildlife, only hikers and trees and flowers. Only hearty trees and plants survive the tough ground of rock and dirt.

The view at the top of the fjord was beyond comparison. On our side of the fjord were sheer cliffs. Drew and I stretched out and set our heads on the edge for a view. Across the fjord, across a sea of fog, I could see the tops of black mountains.

Nine out of ten Norwegian girls is good-looking. And the sun shines for 21 hours of the day. So at midnight, the sky looks like 8:15 in Iowa.

Sam

Action-man, 7 June, Skudaneshavn, Norway

Today we stepped off a plane in Haugesund, southwest Norway. Outside the airport, we met the lanky legend, Glenn Landenes. Emily had established a connection with him by conversing for most of a 14-hour train ride in Romania last year. That same amiability came out soon enough, as the Norwegian smiled wide and packed our bags in the back of his slick BMW. Glenn asks good questions, keeps an open mind, and answers freely in nearly flawless English.

Immediately we took off in Glenn's hot 6-series through hills outcropped with ancient stones and spotted with sheep. It was Glenn's birthday, so we stopped and picked up an enormous marzipan cake at the local "KIWI" shop. It was handmade with the words "Glenn er beste" scrawled in drippy icing. Conveniently, Glenn knew the storeowner who made the cake for him. Also conveniently, Glenn knew the owner of some rental cabins in the center of Skudaneshavn, who gave us a warm and wooded one for three nights. To be honest, Glenn conveniently knows just about everyone in the world--billionaires, Hollywood stars, oil tycoons, even the local fishermen. If you don't yet know Glenn, it's more likely your fault than his.

Glenn's first treat for us (for there were many to follow) was a visit to ye-old ship captain Johannes' cafe. Johannes, with white flowing hair and a meaty handshake, hurried back to his waffle batter and started frying. Black coffee and hot "vafler" make a brilliant combo. Smothered in fresh raspberry jam, the vafler melt going down. They generally cost 18 kroners (about 3 bucks), but Johannes discounted us at first. When we came back for more, he gave them to us on the house, nodding his white head happily: "Ja, ja...nice American boeez."

Drew