After two planes, countless trains and luckily, no automobiles, I stumbled out of the train station in Bergen, Norway – my eyes half shut, yet mind fully awake. Exactly 24 hours had elapsed since ordering an early morning Gett taxi from my humble Tel Aviv abode. As the driver cruised down the main drags en route to Ben-Gurion Airport, the city that (usually) never sleeps seemed to be taking a catnap: the infantry of barstools that spill onto Dizengoff Street were stacked in organized rows, their disposition as cold as their metallic makeup; Allenby Road’s countless cafés were counting sheep; the doe-eyed street art characters protecting Florentin’s bohemian fortress even seemed to droop just a tad. At this most ungodly hour, I gathered hints to unlocking Tel Aviv’s rich and resilient culture for the last time before heading off to Scandinavia in pursuit of happiness. Little did I know that an equally rich and similar culture awaited me on the other side of Europe.
