Bill Bryson - Neither here Nor there

Anyone who has been to Europe will be engaged by the blend of awe and bewilderment that Bill Bryson brings to this uproariously funny memoir of a trip around the Continent. Deciding to get a jump on a budding midlife crisis, he loads a bag with maps and old clothes and sets off to retrace the journey he took as a young backpacker in the 1970s, accompanied by an unforgettable sidekick named Stephen Katz (who will be gloriously familiar to readers of Brysons A Walk in the Woods). Interweaving his comic misadventures from the first trip with the razor-sharp insights of his older self, Bryson wanders through Paris, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Rome, Geneva, Vienna. and other great cities of Europe. With affection and wit he explains why the French are constitutionally incapable of queuing, why Yugoslavian beer erocourages your legs to go in for a tittle involuntary moonwalking, and asks: Why didnt the armistice treaty require the Germans to lay down their accordions along with their arms?

Bill Bryson

Travels in Europe

ePub r1.0

Titivillus 16.10.15

Bill Bryson, 1991

Editor digital: Titivillus

ePub base r1.2

William James describes a man who got the experience from laughing-gas; whenever he was under its influence, he knew the secret of the universe, but when he came to, he had forgotten it. At last, with immense effort, he wrote down the secret before the vision had faded. When completely recovered, he rushed to see what he had written. It was A smell of petroleum prevails throughout.

Bertrand Russell

A History of Western Philosophy

Bill Bryson is one of the funniest writers alive. For the past two decades he has been entertaining readers with bravura displays of wit and wisdom. His first book, The Lost Continent, in which he put small town America under the microscope, was an instant classic of modern travel literature. Although he has returned to America many times since, never has he been more funny, more memorable, more acute than in his most recent book, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, in which he revisits that most fecund of topics, his childhood. The trials and tribulations of growing up in 1950s America are all here. Des Moines, Iowa, is recreated as a backdrop to a golden age where everything was good for you, including DDT, cigarettes and nuclear fallout. This is as much a story about an almost forgotten, innocent America as it is about Brysons childhood. The past is a foreign country. They did things differently then

Bill Brysons bestselling travel books include The Lost Continent, Notes from a Small Island, A Walk in the Woods and Down Under. A Short History of Nearly Everything was shortlisted for the Samuel Johnson Prize, and won the Aventis Prize for Science Books and the Descartes Science Communication Prize. His latest book is his bestselling childhood memoir, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.

To Cynthia

In winter Hammerfest is a thirty-hour ride by bus from Oslo, though why anyone would want to go there in winter is a question worth considering. It is on the edge of the world, the northernmost town in Europe, as far from London as London is from Tunis, a place of dark and brutal winters, where the sun sinks into the Arctic Ocean in November and does not rise again for ten weeks.

I wanted to see the Northern Lights. Also, I had long harboured a half-formed urge to experience what life was like in such a remote and forbidding place. Sitting at home in England with a glass of whisky and a book of maps, this had seemed a capital idea. But now as I picked my way through the grey, late-December slush of Oslo I was beginning to have my doubts.

Things had not started well. I had overslept at the hotel, missing breakfast, and had to leap into my clothes. I couldnt find a cab and had to drag my ludicrously overweighted bag eight blocks through slush to the central bus station. I had had huge difficulty persuading the staff at the Kreditkassen Bank on Karl Johans Gate to cash sufficient travellers cheques to pay the extortionate 1,200-kroner bus fare they simply could not be made to grasp that the William McGuire Bryson on my passport and the Bill Bryson on my travellers cheques were both me and now here I was arriving at the station two minutes before departure, breathless and steaming from the endless uphill exertion that is my life, and the girl at the ticket counter was telling me that she had no record of my reservation.

This isnt happening, I said. Im still at home in England enjoying Christmas. Pass me a drop more port, will you, darling? Actually, I said, There must be some mistake. Please look again.

The girl studied the passenger manifest. No, Mr Bryson, your name is not here.

But I could see it, even upside-down. There it is, second from the bottom.

No, the girl decided, that says Bernt Bjornson. Thats a Norwegian name.

It doesnt say Bernt Bjornson. It says Bill Bryson. Look at the loop of the Y, the two Ls. Miss, please. But she wouldnt have it. If I miss this bus when does the next one go?

Next week at the same time.

Oh, splendid.

Miss, believe me, it says Bill Bryson.

No, it doesnt.

Miss, look, Ive come from England. Im carrying some medicine that could save a childs life. She didnt buy this. I want to see the manager.

Hes in Stavanger.

Listen, I made a reservation by telephone. If I dont get on this bus Im going to write a letter to your manager that will cast a shadow over your career prospects for the rest of this century. This clearly did not alarm her. Then it occurred to me. If this Bernt Bjornson doesnt show up, can I have his seat?

Sure.

Why dont I think of these things in the first place and save myself the anguish? Thank you, I said, and lugged my bag outside.

The bus was a large double-decker, like an American Greyhound, but only the front half of the upstairs had seats and windows. The rest was solid aluminium, covered with a worryingly psychedelic painting of an intergalactic landscape, like the cover of a pulp science-fiction novel, with the words EXPRESS 2000 emblazoned across the tail of a comet. For one giddy moment I thought the windowless back end might contain a kind of dormitory and that at bedtime we would be escorted back there by a stewardess who would invite us to choose a couchette. I was prepared to pay any amount of money for this option. But I was mistaken. The back end, and all the space below us, was for freight. Express 2000 was really just a long-distance lorry with passengers.

We left at exactly noon. I quickly realized that everything about the bus was designed for discomfort. I was sitting beside the heater, so that while chill draughts teased my upper extremities, my left leg grew so hot that I could hear the hairs on it crackle. The seats were designed by a dwarf seeking revenge on full-sized people; there was no other explanation. The young man in front of me put his seat so far back that his head was all but in my lap. He was reading a comic book called