The Silence of the Fjords

Norway is quiet.

Not silent. There is wind. Water. Birds. The occasional ferry horn echoing off cliffs.

But quiet. The kind of quiet that makes one aware of one's own breathing.

The ferry from Bergen to Flåm. Five hours. Two hundred kilometers of coastline. Mountains. Waterfalls. Villages that appear and disappear like mirages.

Sitting on deck. Not speaking to anyone. Not wanting to.

The Nærøyfjord is narrow. So narrow the water can be touched from both sides of the ferry. So narrow the cliffs block out the sky.

A woman next to whispers, "It is like being inside a cathedral."

Nodding. Not trusting voice.

Passing a waterfall. Then another. Then a dozen. Each one different. Each one temporary. Snowmelt. Rain. Springs that appear and disappear with the seasons.

"How long does this take?" the woman asks.

"The fjords?"

"No. Getting here. From your country."

"Fourteen hours."

She smiles. "Worth it?"

Looking at the water. At the cliffs. At the impossibly blue sky.

"Yes. Every second."

Flåm is small. Three hundred people. Two hotels. One church.

Walking to the church. Open. Empty. Sitting in the back.

A man enters. Local. Older. Sits next.

"Tourist?"

"Yes."

"First time Norway?"

"Yes."

"You will come back."

"I hope so."

He nods. Stands. Leaves.

Staying for an hour. Not praying. Just sitting. Listening to the silence.

The train to Oslo the next day. The Flåmsbana. Steepest railway in the world.

The conductor announces each waterfall by name. Kjosfossen. Berefossen. Vatnahalsen.

Not writing them down. Not photographing them.

Some things are not meant to be captured. They are meant to be experienced.

Then forgotten.

Then remembered differently, years later, when the memory is needed most.

Oslo is a shock. Traffic. People. Noise.

Forgotten what cities sound like.

The Munch Museum. Standing in front of The Scream for twenty minutes.

The figure on the bridge, hands over ears, mouth open in a silent scream.

Understanding him for the first time.

Not the scream itself. The need for it.

The need to make noise in a world that demands silence.

Leaving Norway three days later.

Back home, people ask, "What was the best part?"

Not knowing how to answer.

The best part was not a place. It was a feeling.

The feeling of being small. Insignificant. Temporary.

The feeling of sitting in a church in a village of three hundred people, knowing you will never see it again, knowing it does not matter, knowing it matters more than anything.

That is what Norway gave.

Not photos. Not souvenirs.

Perspective.

And the knowledge that sometimes, the loudest thing you can hear is silence.