Back in Norway

"There is no bad weather, only bad clothing." — Scandinavian Proverb

We landed in the soft, gray afternoon light of Bergen. The clouds hung low over the surrounding mountains, mist gently blurring the skyline — classic Western Norway weather, and somehow comforting. We hopped onto the Bybanen, Bergen’s smooth light-rail system, and rode it past rows of painted houses and mossy rooftops to Danmarksplass. From there, we walked — backpacks weighing heavily on our shoulders — to Citybox, our cozy hotel nestled between minimalist Nordic design and urban simplicity. Finally, we could drop the bags, peel off our travel layers, and breathe.

It felt just amazing to be back in Norway — the place where everything, in a way, began. I met Kiki here. My dream to travel started here, too. It came rushing back — the charming wooden houses with their steep rooftops, the locals cycling by no matter the rain, the ever-present smell of pine and sea salt, and that unmistakable blend of darkness, cold, and koselig (coziness) that makes Norway feel like home. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I stood there, surrounded by it again.

We grabbed our first coffee back on Norwegian soil at Bakker Bruns, a local bakery chain that instantly felt like a ritual restored. Strong, black, and just what jetlagged souls needed. With caffeine warming our hands, we bought a one-week Bybanen pass and headed to the city center.

Wandering through the narrow alleyways of Bryggen, the old wharf with its crooked, colorful wooden buildings, felt like stepping into a painting. The cobblestone streets shimmered under the soft rain, glowing orange as the streetlights flickered on. By sunset, we made our way to the Fisketorget — Bergen’s famous fish market — nestled beside the fjord. Inside a cozy tent, warmed by a fire heater humming beside us, we tucked into fresh seafood. Kiki leaned closer to the heater, cheeks pink from the cold, and sighed with contentment. We ended the day content and sleepy, letting the soft sound of rain lull us back to our hotel.

Tuesday started slow, the kind of sluggishness only jet lag can cause, but Bakker Bruns came to the rescue once again. After several coffees — we stopped counting at three — we wandered through the supermarket and made a simple lunch: cauliflower soup and rustic seeded bread, warm and hearty against the cold.

Then came Fløyen. The hike up was steeper than I remembered, a reminder that our bodies needed to start prepping for Nepal. But once at the top, the city spread beneath us like a patchwork of red roofs and shining water. We laughed while filming with our new GoPro, capturing footage of moss-covered trolls hiding in the Trollskogen and goats balancing proudly on the rocks, as if they ruled the mountain.

On the way down, chilled but grinning, we stopped for hot chocolate — the thick, creamy kind that warms your fingertips as you hold the cup. We browsed the little artisan shops of Bryggen, and nostalgia led us to Meny, the supermarket we used to visit as students. With simple groceries in hand, we walked to Fantoft Studentby and sat in the garden, wrapped in jackets, eating just like we used to. Cold noses, warm hearts.

The next day followed a now-comforting rhythm: back to Bakker Bruns for coffee and catch-up work. Between sips and keystrokes, we finalized preparations for the upcoming academic year and geared up for our meeting with HVL, the Western Norway University of Applied Sciences. Our goal? Building an exchange program between Kulen Outreach and the Norwegian university, just like we did with KdG and Vives in Belgium.

Then came the curveball.

G. called with the kind of news that makes your stomach twist — the budget had to change. Everything we had worked on for months — the schedules, the staffing, the student plans, the community collaborations — would have to be rethought. A heavy blow, just before one of the most important meetings of our trip.

After the meeting, our hearts were still heavy, so we did what we do best: we went for a climb. First Fløyen again, then further, to Blåmanen — a wilder, quieter trail. The wind was stronger there, biting at our jackets, but with every step, the stress loosened its grip. Sometimes nature says what people can’t.

On Thursday, still sore but smiling, we walked into a local shop and bought authentic Norwegian sweaters — thick, patterned wool, the kind that feels like armor against mountain winds. We wore them immediately, drawing compliments from passersby, and feeling like part of the landscape once more.

That afternoon was special — our 2.5-year anniversary. We celebrated the way we know best: a hike under the whispering trees, a hot chocolate in hand, and dinner back at the fish market by the fjord, where Bergen’s lights danced on the water like stars.

The next morning, with sweaters packed and hearts full, we said goodbye to the rain-soaked charm of Bergen and boarded our flight to Gothenburg, Sweden.