Last drops of summer

In June and July of this year we travelled abroad for the first time as a family. Yes, we had been to Sweden two years earlier, but since Sweden is the neighbouring country closest to us, it doesn't really qualify - in the mind of a Norwegian - for the designation 'abroad'. Our destination for this our first major trip to a foreign country was the USA.

If it had not been for Pastor T O Tolo who emigrated from Norway in the early 1880s, we would have been exploring other parts of the world, eating perhaps Sauerkraut instead of Doughnuts. But because of his decision to exit home turf and sire his six sons elsewhere, we were granted the possibility, by some of his descendants, to come and see what life in the sole remaining superpower state could be.

The first leg of our journey was spent on the West coast, in or near Seattle. Leg two brought us to sunny Florida and the pull of attractions like Seaworld. The final leg would entail a cherished reunion with some of the people we had already acquainted ourselves with while on the West coast, and - as an added bonus - we would also come to know a few more unforgettable Americans, some Tolo-related and some not. It was time to come and view.....

CONNECTICUT, THE HOME OF HARTFORD

Leeland Tolo and his sister Connie came to welcome us at the airport, and after some innocent squabble over a ruptured piece of luggage, we were taken to IHOP: the International House of Pancakes. I have always wondered what American-style pancakes taste like, but now I wonder no more. I know what the taste is like. I know what palatal sensations can be unleashed by generous helpings of maple syrup. I know now the full extent of the meaning of the adjective 'sweet'. Because a lot of Americans love food that contains heaps of sugar. And I suspect my pancakes held liberal amounts of the stuff.

But, still, IHOP was great fun and good food, and a very filling introduction to a part of the USA described by the selfsame Leeland as presenting the very best that the US has to offer. I cannot raise substantial objections as far as scenery goes. And I certainly cannot refute him when it comes to the people dwelling in Connecticut. The East coast was delightful, too, and would treat us to some very memorable moments.

SO MUCH TO DO, SO MANY PLACES TO BE

Our retired friend, the former music professor of the University of Hartford, evinced a keen interest in other fields of human acitivity as well. Far for being a musical monophile (he still plays the double bass), he later on our day one in Connecticut brought us to a Minor league game of baseball. Being a complete ignorant as far as rules are concerned, I cheered when the striker rocketed the ball solidly out of play, and I repeatedly thought the game was over - when in fact it was to last an hour or so longer.

But being treated to a game of baseball was really yet another fascinating glimpse into the genuine native experience. Not forgetting that we left the venue with a handfull of real baseballs (one which had even been used in the game itself), the greatest bonus was that here we were more than average tourists barely scraping boons from the surface of things: we truly felt we were being invited to share the real thing, their everyday joys and pleasures, as well as a few concerns.

OUR HOST WITH NO PEER

David Tolo, Leland's nephew, was our host for the entire week, as he graciously opened up his home and his fridge to the relative strangers (we had met during ToloNation, the gathering in Washington state where Tolo descendants had turned up in their dozens). Anf true to the spirit of hospitality that permeated our every encounter with the Tolos, David stopped short of nothing in terms of providing for our real or imagined needs. He hosted a barbecue on his spacious lawn, allowed me to use his Internet connection, came to pick us up when we were basically lost in the asphalt jungle, and also shared with me some very special moments of brotherly conversation. This disciple of Jesus was as genuine in his faith as any I have come across before. If he reads this, then let him know that I miss him.

They were all very kind and very welcoming. And so it was that on our menue of collective experiences would appear a fascinating visit to the newly opened Science Center, and a late-week outing on the lawn sitting between the mansions of famous authors Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe. That would have been plenty in itself, but the industrious Leeland and the energetic Connie had more ideas on how we should spend our precious time in Hartford. And without the slightest hint of protest, and with genuine curiosity to back us up, we managed to squeeze into our schedules a marvelous late-night outdoor concert in the Hollow Park, Woodbury, with the Waterbury Symphonic Orchestra, competently conducted by Leif Bjaaland - and with Leeland as one of three players on the double bass.

TIME TO WRITE A BOOK? (NO!)

There is hardly time and space enough to accomodate our brief, but repetitious brush with the 19'th century roundabout perched in the heart of Bushnell Park. I could almost sense the presence of past revellers as I sat athwart my inanimate horse, wondering if they could possibly have enjoyed their rather meagre diet of available amusements the way we were soaking up every ounce of mirth and satisfaction on our way towards July 16'th and the inevitable: the long flights home.