A Bridge Too Far?

 It's not all glamour, believe me. Please don't get me wrong; I love to go, and I'm honored to go. It's my jam, and I pinch myself every time I wake up in a foreign city, a foreign country, a place I've never been before. It's all possible because of the continued support of my incredibly talented staff, both past and present, and our wonderful clients who have entrusted us with their family treasures over the last thirty-five years. 

Here's a short story about my recent trip to Bergen, Norway. Regardless of what kind of images I manage to get on a particular trip, I consider it an unqualified success if I get home with all the stuff I left with. This hardly ever happens. Keeping track of camera bodies, lenses, tablets, cords, chargers, toiletries, underwear, phone, passport, and all the other assorted paraphernalia that make travel photography possible. It never happens. 

I made it as far as Schipohl, Amsterdam this time before things started going south. I was flying Delta/KLM, which is good, but the departure gate for Bergen changed three times. I studiously noted and reacted to two of the three changes, but missed the last one. Consequently, I was sitting at gate A12 as my flight was departing from gate A9.  

KLM was nice enough to put me on the next flight to Bergen, which, as it turned out, was six hours later –In addition to the 3 hours and twelve minutes I had already waited. My luggage had apparently gone on ahead. The eventual flight to Bergen went off without a hitch, and we pulled in shortly after midnight. I was so tired I wasn't even tired anymore, which is a sure sign of exhaustion. 

I had booked an all-day Train/bus/boat/train/train tour for first thing the next day, and so cabbed it into town, skipping the light rail. I hauled my luggage, camera gear suitcase, and backpack up the hill to the door of the AirBnB, got down on my hands and knees, fiddled with the combination to the lockbox and got into the apartment. I unpacked, got ready for the tour, double-checked my gear, and collapsed on the bed for what may have been 3 hours of sleep.  

Up bright and early the following day, still jet-lagged and groggy, I rechecked my camera gear, shouldered my pack and hot-footed it into town to the train station. I grabbed a coffee and Danish at the little cafe in the station and stood on the platform, wolfing it down when my upper bridge became loose, and I either swallowed it or spat it out on the platform. 

Either way, it was a disaster. I had no upper front teeth, so I had to do the entire tour, 13 hours, with my mouth shut. I suppose my fellow travelers presumed I was a monk who had taken a vow of silence, and I replied to all polite inquiries concerning my nationality, trip length, purpose, etc., with a grunt, grimace, or shrug. Who said Americans were loud?

The tour finally ended, and it started raining. Bergen is the raniest city in Europe, and August was the raniest August...ever. I walked back to the apartment in the pouring rain with no teeth, but I had gotten some great images of the Fjords and the Norwegian countryside. I decided that what I really needed next was a reindeer hotdog.