In a Sound.

Not a sea day.

Honningsvåg, Norway – My reverie is shattered by the deep baritone of the ferry’s horn.

A motorcycle responds with a rev.

Echoes crash off zebra-striped mountains enveloping the sound, which provides sanctuary for the countless colourful boats anchored here this morning. Tall metal rods stand from their decks like matchsticks. 

The fish must be similarly silent today.

Despite having only 2,200 residents, Honningsvåg is considered the northernmost "city" in mainland Norway. Its painted homes are nestled into the rock, with backyards that cascade into the ones below. Snow fences are stitched onto the hills to protect them from heavy Arctic winters.

Capain Kirk.

It snowed only three days ago, and various pockets of water are still frozen over.

But, signs of spring: a mossy green canvas of lichen stretches out like fingers into the crevasses. At eight degrees, it's somehow still warm enough for short sleeves.

There's not much here, but sloped roads carry us to a white church that – apart from its green steeple – would seem to disappear in winter. 

Sort of like many organized religions in this day and age.

When occupying German forces retreated in 1944, they burnt Honningsvåg to the ground.

The Neo-Gothic church was the only building to survive.

Never Settle.

12:16 a.m.: still glowing.

Arctic Ocean – Midnight has ticked past without fanfare.

It's still bright enough to be mid-day.

A ball of bright orange bounces on the horizon, lighting up breaths of wispy cloud. The sun will dip no farther as we settle into the first of our 24-hour days.

It's seemingly more time to be alive, watching the cursive of the waves script the day's stories.

We're well above the Arctic Circle and the sun is warm, even if the wind is not. It's gorgeous in its barrenness.

Snow-capped mountains sketch a horizon crimped in black and white, set above a vast pile of blue crepe paper.

It's surreal enough to be a diorama. 

Coronation Street.

An Olav branch.

Trondheim, Norway – Nidaros Cathedral looms over the centre of Trondheim.

And over the country’s history.

Built atop the grave of St. Olav, between 1070-1300, Nidaros was an important pilgrimage for Northern Europeans during the Middle Ages. For centuries more, kings were crowned within its walls.

This morning, the cathedral's massive rose window sparkles in the sun, a kaleidoscope shimmering from its petals.

Between light and darkness.

As I look up, I'm awed by the the rebuilt west front, which is faced by brownish-grey stonework as intricate as lace. Fifty-seven statues stand like chess pieces, severe countenances etched upon their faces.

In a twist, the one topping the north-west tower is modeled after Bob Dylan. 

By the nineteenth century, Nidaros was a crumbling shell of itself, having been destroyed by fire, decay and neglect. Restoration continues today.

By all accounts, Trondheim itself is a phoenix. 

The former national capital has been rebuilt multiple times following massive fires, including one in 1651 that reduced 90 per cent of it to cinders. Today, the wooden wharf of Bakklandet is tinted by the yellows and reds of the bird’s feathers.

Dwarfed.

Throughout Trondheim, bridges seem to serve as braces, holding together a town straddling past and future.

An old crane looms like a steel robot, its hook arm hanging languidly, out of work.

Amidst the buzzing of drills, old shipbuilding yards are fading into condos, hotels and restaurants. Monuments to the town’s nautical history rust alongside dry docks that haven’t been embraced in years. Brick walls have been scrubbed of their pasts.

Trondheim: being born yet again.

Waving Goodbye.

Can't believe what I sea.

Ålesund, Norway – Green dragon scales rise from the Norwegian Sea as we slip past the mouth of Geirangerfjord.

Grizzled molars capped with snow snarl in the backdrop. But a ball of blue surrounds it all.

Behind us, smooth ribs ripple through the water as we head out into the open sea. The warm air breathes lightness into my shoulders.

I couldn't write this beauty.

It's a fairy tale.

Breathless.

An exercise in beauty.

Ålesund, Norway – With each step, my lungs embrace the clear, northern air – passionately and frequently, like young lovers.

My legs scream in a way my voice no longer can.

Climbing the 418 steps to the top of Mount Aksla isn’t particularly hard, but it’s steep enough after several days of inactivity. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken them two-by-two. 

I’m told it’s easier now that many of the steps have been paved for The Amazing Race, which replaced many of the uneven stones.

As I reach the top, the panoramic views across the archipelago offer a salve for even the most ardent joint pain. It’s warmer than the advertised 10 degrees, and the views are unparalleled.

Petals, blown onto buildings.

The sky has stretched out in endless blue, draping itself over jagged mountains lined with snow like the stringy white hair of so many of those wandering around us. Colourful Art Nouveau buildings are set onto the canals like pointed candies.

Small boats exhale curves of white plume that waft over this important fishing port as we slouch into a picnic table for a pint at Molo Brew.

A jackdaw cries from the branch overhead. 

With nearly everything closed for Whit Monday, it’s one of the few sounds we hear.

Apart from a series of clinks, followed by“skål.”

The adventure is officially underway.

Burnt Out.

For whom the bell trolls.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Stepping into Freetown Christiania feels much like peeling away the multiple layers of faded posters affixed to the walls.

The sharp edge of history is still there, but it's mostly buried beneath changing times. 

And and it's vanishing quickly.

Founded by squatters in 1971 as an autonomous hippie commune, Christiania has endured its fair share of troubles, as one might expect from a community predicated on anarchy.

Just last month, the infamous Pusher Street – home to the so-called 'Green Light District,' where illegal drugs were openly sold – was torn up, its cobblestones tucked into the corner of a construction site. A sign tells visitors that violent gangs forced the community to take action.

Skating by.

Soon, a new apartment complex will take its place.

And yet, a definite vibe still twists through the marijuana smoke. 

Mostly, it's a visceral feeling that something is different. Rough buildings and a skate park are made up in bright graffiti. Faded hippies twirl in the grass. Paintings of cameras in red circles still warn you of where you’re actually allowed to take photographs. 

It's hard to imagine anywhere being off-limits now.

Amidst the presumed chaos, there's a hipster coffee shop and several food trucks. An outdoor market sells flowing elephant pants you'd find at any North American music festival. Late-stage capitalism has entered the chat.

It seems anarchy becomes impractical with maturity.

The vibe itself has become an anachronism. Seemingly existing between two states – figuratively and literally – Christinia's time as it was once imagined seems now to have passed. And I'm not sure that's necessarily a bad thing.

But I'm certainly glad I got to see it – and feel it – before the final poster was peeled away and replaced by a shiny glass building.

A Great Dane.

Become a star flyer at Tivoli.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Obscured behind the tall walls of Tivoli Gardens, rides whirl like the flip of a poodle skirt caught in the breeze.

The Star Flyer climbs steadily, twisting as would a spider ascending to the heavens.

At one end stands a mountain of fibreglass, its tip dipped in white. The stiff flag at its peak points to the north. Opened in 1843, Tivoli is the third-oldest amusement park in the world.

The oldest is only 10 minutes away.

Rather than go inside, we sit on a green box edging the sidewalk and eat a pølser wrapped in bacon, painted with remoulade and topped with a sprinkle of crispy onions. It’s the extent of our carnival today.

But it’s a (very) good one. Even the late Anthony Bourdain raved. Yes, about a hotdog.

Anyone have a corkscrew?

So I sit with shoulders shrugged, hopeful the sunshine will erase the grogginess that comes with having been plied into an airplane seat that doubles as a straitjacket. It has been a long day of travel and we’re hanging on by an eyelash for our limited time in Copenhagen.

The only clouds are in my head, but exhaustion still feels like wool, tucked above my temples.

It’s a national holiday in Denmark and others obviously feel better than we do. For Constitution Day, they walk along the various canals, well-dressed in white with Danish flag ribbons stuck to their chests. 

Many swing open bottles of wine.

Although we typically walk everywhere, we maximize the value of our 24-hour transit passes by taking water taxis around the city, including to the Little Mermaid and the lesser-known Genetically Modified Little Mermaid. Flags rattle against silent masts, pinned to the harbour. 

Nyhavn: a box of crayons.

We pass long lines of people tanning casually along the shore and among Nyhavn's wood and plaster structures, which groove in shifts of bright colours. Most are more than 350 years old. 

Sunlight offers a bright, white exclamation mark that cascades on indifferent ripples in the water.

Turning the corner, a small boat pops out from under a shallow bridge, a table set at its centre. A bottle of wine stands sentry.

I could get used to this.