Nike: The Wind Seeker

(Greek:  2nd centruy BC, marble, Louvre, Paris)

Ok, reader peeps, this week we are going to diverge a little from our normal routine here at "The Merry Scribe."

That means we are going to cut the comedy.

Now before you throw your laptop out the nearest window, please allow Dr. Merry to prescribe some necessary medicine for you.

As we all know, there is more to life than just the funny stuff.

Dang it!

Can I be honest here?

If the powers that be had appointed me CEO over this planet, there would be nothing but funny stuff.

And that's exactly why I am not the CEO over anything - including the lint in my dryer.

The lint let's me think I'm it's daily slayer.

But both of us know the disgusting truth.

Besides, I'm doing this for your own good.

It is not right that people should laugh all the time.

Sometimes we must refine ourselves - ouch! - and actually learn something.

I promise - it will only hurt for a little while.

Before you know it, your artsy-fartsy boo-boo will be all better.

And your funny bone will be back in business before you can say "Bob Heiney."

So................without further adieu please allow me to inaugurate Docent Day here at "The Merry Scribe."

And just in case you are wondering - it wasn't that many years ago that I was wondering - a docent is an art educator.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  

The Winged Victory of Samothrace (Nike) is my favorite sculpture of all time.

Why?

Well, for starters, she exudes feminine power.

Her body is well built and strong.

I love the fact that she no longer possesses her head.

Maybe she would be deemed beautiful if she had one.

Or maybe not.

In any case, the point is moot.

Because she is headless, we are never distracted by the potential beauty of her face.

Instead, we are drawn to the power of a woman nearly in flight.

She is armless.

No matter.

We are now free to concentrate on the strength of her steadfast legs.

Nike's flat chest does not draw attention.

And here is the real shocker:

She is clothed.

Her gowned body has not been objectified by today's in-your-face nudity.

This frees the viewer to contemplate Nike's actions - not her sexual possibilities.

Her robes flutter in the wind.

Indeed, they trail behind her as the air lifts them in the breeze.

Nike's magnificent wings are bent inward in the act of flight.

Her body is thrust forward directly into the wind.

What adventure is she running toward?

She appears fearless as she moves through the air.

There is a spirit of reckless abandon about her.

Whatever task awaits her, she is surely ready and willing to accept it.

Everything about this sculpture portrays the beauty of a woman in dedicated movement.

Nike resides at the head of the Grand Staircase II in the Louvre.

She stands alone.

In reality, who or what could compete with her?

She is surrounded by prominent stairways, massive stone arches and beautiful leaded ceiling windows.

This is, indeed, a fitting backdrop for such commanding art.

I adore this woman of ancient days.

Timeless, she steps purposefully into the world, modeling power and strength for her sisters as they pursue their own sacred dreams.

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE EPILOGUE

(Dante & Virgil; Hippolyte Flandrin; 1835; Musee des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, France)

Later that evening, Bob drifts off to a deep sleep punctuated with visions of seagulls shooting bullets of something - he's isn't sure what.

Soon, he sees Dante and Virgil coming toward him in the distance.

As they make their approach, Bob squints and says, "What took you guys so long?"

Dante replies, "We got delayed on the Fifth Circle. Virgil wanted to pick up a few things for you in "The Scream" Gift Shop. Welcome to the Ninth, Bob!"

Puzzled at their thoughtfulness, Bob wonders to himself: "Does this mean I am going to have to be nice to people - even in Hell?"

Smiling, Virgil grasps a blood red basket.

He places it in Bob's hands and says, "We want you to enjoy these gifts!"

Bob notices a swirling banner lying elegantly across the ruby hued cellophane.

The glittery words read: "We welcome Hell's newest hottie!"

He peers cautiously into the basket and surveys the contents.

Horrified, he sees a wheel of blue cheese the size of a monster truck tire.

Dante's eyes sparkle as he adds, "We've taken the liberty of enrolling you in the "Blue Cheese of the Month Club, Bob."

A faint grimace crosses Bob's face.

But he is determined to remain cool amidst the Ninth's stiffling heat.

Within seconds Bob's eyes focus nervously on a pre-paid membership packet to the Hades Museum of Art.

Virgil elaborates: "The museum's permanent exhibit is entitled: "Feeling Our Feelings Forever - Art That Never Ends."

The poet continues: "Bob, we know you're dying to see this exhibit. Please remember that you are required to view this fascinating collection three times a week - always and forever."

Virgil adds, " Emotional outbursts are mandatory. Kleenex is provided free of charge on Tuesdays."

Bob's knees begin to wiggle like jelly.

He stares off into Hell's horizon thinking to himself: "What did I do to deserve this?"

Just then Virgil hands Bob a crimson red envelope and commands, "Go ahead, I insist that you open it."

Bob pulls a bright pink brochure ever so slowly from the envelope.

It reads: "Congratulations, Bob! You have just won an annual, three month vacation to the gift shops on the Fifth Circle. You must spend a minimum of $50,000 in each store - weekly. Shop till you drop!"

Virgil winks at Bob and says: "We take that admonition seriously here on the Ninth."

Dante glances at Bob and quickly sizes him up, "You look as white as a ghost, my friend."

"Perhaps we should direct you to Hell's Five Star restaurant: "We Only Do Grilled Chicken Salad."

Dante adds, "This popular salad is priced right at just $175.00 per entree. Croutons are available for an additional $20.00."

Bob drops his head into his hands and whimpers softly.

Virgil tells him, "Oh, I almost forgot. Here is a book of coupons which introduces our newest service:

"Doody Calls."

Virgil cautions Bob, "Those unpredictable seagulls are Class-A dive bombers here on the Ninth."

"They have developed a particular affection for folically-challenged males."

"I wouldn't be surprised if they target your place hourly."

Limp with agony, Bob whispers to his companions, "Thanks, but you really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble just for me."

As they turn to walk away, Virgil explains to Bob, "The gift basket is not something we usually do here."

"But this is a highly unusual circumstance."

Virgil's eyes soften as he touches Bob's arm.

"We checked the Ninth's Resident Roster yesterday. Your neighbor for eternity will be a woman called "Merry."

"Not the most appropriate name for a resident of Hell but we work with what we have."

"Do you happen to know her?"

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE NINTH CIRCLE

(Dante & Virgil in Union Square, Isabel Bishop, 1932, Delaware Museum of Art)

Bob rushes to push open the door to Oslo's National Gallery of Art.

"He seems a little too happy to be leaving this cultural edifice," I muse to myself.

I quickly realize that I need to cut the Bobster some major slack.

So I say to him, "Honey, all we have left to do is walk back to the ship and get onboard!"

Bob glances at me and keeps walking toward the Baltic.

The temperature on the streets of Oslo is close to 326 F - and that's in the shade.

To say that it is HOT is the understatement of all time.

Bob and I are sweating buckets.

I am tired and cranky.

Because I am directionally-challenged, I am confused about our location every time we stop to search the map.

I say to Bob, "Please figure out the quickest way to get back to the ship. My feet are killing me and we don't have much time left before we need to be onboard."

We stop at a street corner for a no-walk light.

My eyes are scanning for taxis.

No.

Nope.

Nada.

Because the Oslo taxi drivers are sane, they have left Oslo for work at the Arctic Circle.

Bob is studying the map like crazy.

I'm studying Bob.

I am nearly out of my mind with - for want of a better word - exhaustion.

I can tell that I am within seconds of getting my full gear "crazy" on.

I watch Bob study the map.

He is squatting on the street trying desperately to figure things out.

I decide that the best move on my part will be to kill Bob and hijack a car so I can get back to the ship before it leaves Oslo.

This plan seems utterly rational to me.

Then it happens.

From out of nowhere........

SPLAT!

A big green blob of glop lands right in the center of Bob's map!

Then.......

SPLATTTTTTT!

A second load of the same green stuff drops directly on the back of Bob's hand.

Bob grins up at me and says, "I guess one of these seagulls had to answer nature's call."

Then he actually.......... LAUGHS!

Perhaps I should say that laughing would not have been my first reaction.

I would have rapidly removed my AK47 from my handbag - which I keep handy for just such an emergency - and blown that bag of feathers with the loosey-goosey bowels into the middle of the next universe.

But that's just me.

We immediately realize that we need to get the green doody OFF THE MAP A.S.A.P. because the seagull's aim was dead on.

At this point, I am nearly comatose with exhaustion.

But the Bobster is in his element.

Bob says to me, "Do you have anything to mop up this mess?"

I watch as the green gunk runs down the back of his hand in rivers.

I choke back dry heaves and say to him, "I think so."

I dig into my purse and retrieve several tissues which I hand to him.

Then Bob picks up his precious map and moves it and himself close to the buildings to be out of the way of passersby.

He lays the map on the sidewalk and begins to blot up the bird - how shall I say this? - poop.

If he doesn't act fast, the needed information will disintegrate into doody oblivion.

He knows he must be able to read the very spot that is covered with the remains of the colon explosion.

I look at him and don't know whether to laugh or cry so I do some of both.

Bob is still in amusement mode as he blots away.

My heart goes out to this man who has been so incredibly steady and patient through every crazy thing I've put him through during the past 40 years.

I love him for that and so much more.

That doesn't mean that I've forgotten about killing him.

I need a target to relieve my overwhelming anxiety and he is the obvious choice.

At this point, my feet feel like they're on fire.

Crawling to the ship seems like an enjoyable alternative to walking.

I ask Bob, "How close are we to the ship?"

He answers and points, "It's just over there."

I look.

I see nothing.

I want to kill him.

But that sounds like way too much work.

Instead, I stare at him and shriek, "ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY SURE?"

He says quietly, "Trust me. Trust me."

And so I do.

We drag our bodies through another block of ambulatory torture.

Then, turning the corner, we see the magnificent Star Princess in full view.

The blazing lights of heaven could not have looked more welcoming!

We fall in line with many of our cruise-mates who are making their way back to the ship in time for the afternoon sail-away.

Later that evening, I begin daydreaming about the wonders of Oslo.

Strangely, I can no longer feel my legs and feet.

That's because maximum-strength Advil is my new BFF.

I'm hard core.

I refuse to ingest anything but Advil gelcaps.

I get a faster hit with those sweet puppies.

Frankly, I can't live without the stuff.

(Traipsing all over Europe like a crazy person will do that to you.)

Still, I have to admit that every pain, every incident of misery has been worth it.

I am thrilled to the bone that we finally saw my grandparents' homeland.

I say to Bob, "Wasn't it a wonderful day, honey?"

He smiles at me and says, "Yes, dear."

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE SEVENTH CIRCLE

(Carl Bloch, In a Roman Osteria, 1866, Statens Museum For Kunst, Copenhagen)

Bob and I pass the gallery gift shop on the way to the museum's cafe.

He purposefully looks the other way.

But I crane my neck to the left as far as it will go in order to scan the shop's merchandise as we whizz by.

I can easily see that I am going to have to get away from Bob long enough to buy a boatload of stuff in this artsy store.

But first things first.

I look at Bob hopefully and say, "Honey, are you hungry?"

You would think that I would know better, wouldn't you?

I've probably asked this man that very same question at least 60 gazillion times in the 40 plus years I've known him.

The answer has always been, "No, not really."

And it never matters how long it's been since the last morsel of food has passed his lips - it could be 6 hours, 17 days, or 3 years - Bob is never, ever hungry.

Me?

I'm always hungry - even if I just ate three seconds ago.

We walk into the small cafe and I am immediately stunned.

My eyes feast on the magnificent sight before me.

The walls of the cafe are covered top to bottom in emerald green marble.

White Greek columns stand like heavenly sentinels throughout the room.

Bas relief angels drape themselves in all of their beige-y loveliness on the ceiling of the cafe.

Catching my breath I exclaim to Bob, "Who designed this room and can I please live in it forever?"

All of this artistic gorgeousness means only one thing to Bob.

Money.

He knows that it took a lot of money to create this room.

And he knows that it is requiring a lot of money to maintain it.

Within 45 minutes a chunk of our money will be donated to the cause.

Our lovely Norwegian server, Ingrid, smiles at us as she approaches our table.

She speaks perfect English.

I waste no time explaining our situation to Ingrid.

"This is going to be our one and only Norwegian meal. We - excuse me - I - would like to eat something that is authentically Norwegian. What do you suggest?"

She quickly replies, "Well, we do have a limited menu. But the herring plate would certainly fill your request for authentic Norwegian food."

I smile sweetly at her and say, "Gee, maybe something not quite that authentic! My dad's parents were from Norway and he used to buy pickled herring for us when we were little kids. I actually ate it because I didn't know any better - whoops! - I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you!"

Ingrid laughs and says, "I know what you mean. I can't stand it either."

She continued: "The asparagus soup is lovely. And it comes with dark, crusty bread. Soup and bread are staples of the Norwegian cuisine."

I said, 'That sounds fabulous! And I'll take the open-faced blue cheese sandwich drizzled with honey, as well."

I know exactly what Bob is thinking:

"I can't believe she is going to eat that nasty cheese and then breathe all over me. On a scale of 1 to 10, that stuff has an "ick" factor of at least 189."

Pleased as punch with my selections I glance at Bob who is, by now, deep into the menu zone.

That means he is studying the menu selections as if this meal is going to be his last.

Here's the thing about Bob: He would much rather eat his own home-cooked meals than any of the fancier stuff that most restaurants offer.

If he has to eat out, his first choice is almost always Cracker Barrel because the menu there is very similar to what he cooks at home for himself and the family.

The truth is: Bob's cuisine is always healthier and tastier.

Personally, I would rather be shot at dawn than walk into the kitchen to do anything but eat.

Bob finally settles on that old Norwegian classic - mixed veggie salad with grilled chicken.

He likes to live dangerously.

Ingrid flies off to the kitchen, relieved to be rid of us for a few minutes.

Then she returns with sparkling crystal goblets filled with ice ( a bit of a rarity in Europe) and gobs of refreshing water.

Lemon wedges sit sturdily on the rims of the goblets.

However, one lonely lemon wedge is never enough for me.

Ingrid remembers that I asked for a plate of sliced lemon wedges and they appear within seconds.

I gaze admiringly at the freshly cut rose sitting in its watery crystal vase in the middle of our table.

White linen napkins and simple porcelain plates - white again, of course - lighten the table in a visually.

The presentation is superb - everything speaks of elegance, romance, and good taste.

I allow myself to be wrapped in the ambiance of this lovely cafe.

Bob isn't nearly as impressed.

He looks at me and says, "Do you realize that my salad is going to cost the equivalent of $30 in American money?"

"No, honey, that really hasn't even crossed my mind," I reply. "It doesn't matter to me because this is our one and only meal in the country of my grandparents. Chances are, this experience will never happen again."

I can tell by the look on Bob's face that he is counting on that.

Just then Ingrid arrives with our entrees.

I lift the first spoonful of asparagus soup to my lips.

Its delicate flavor and silk-like texture send me into spasms of delight.

Slices of crusty brown bread, rich with everything grainy, sit at the side of the soup, accompanied by creamy butter sticks.

I say to Bob, "This stuff tastes divine!"

Next, I lift the sandwich to my mouth and sink my teeth into the cheesy, sweet honey goodness.

Bob whimpers in utter disgust as the moldy mixture passes my lips.

I notice his reaction, of course, but I can't swallow the blue cheese fast enough.

I feel as if I am stuffing my mouth with tiny bits of heaven.

Bob's chicken salad looks equally gorgeous.

The large white bowl is filled to overflowing with crisp, colorful veggies.

The roasted chicken has been perfectly sliced and scattered in a circular pattern across the top of the mixed lettuce greens.

The same grainy bread and butter sticks appear on the side of his monstrous white plate.

Bob takes a few bites of his salad and says, "This food looks good but it isn't anything special."

"I know that's disappointing," I say to Bob as I shove more cheese and honey into my mouth.

I smile sweetly and say, "Every single bite of my meal is absolutely scrumptious!"

I add, "You are having a really tough day.  But look at it this way - we'll be back on the Star Princess before you can say "I hate Oslo."

Polishing off my last bite of sandwich, I plant a cheese-laced kiss on his lips and say, "I've got to run into the gift shop and pick up a few thousand postcards."

Bob breathes a sigh of acceptance as he thinks to himself,   "Why prolong the agony?  I'll tell the Post Office to forward my mail to the Seventh Circle - effective immediately.  Please tell me they've never heard of blue cheese."

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE FIFTH CIRCLE

(The Scream, Edvard Munch, Art.com)

Bob and I jump off the trolley at the Royal Palace in Oslo because it's as good a place as any to start our tour of Old Town.

There is a royal guard standing at attention in the tiny guard house in front of the palace.

I could be wrong but it looks like a black bear cub is tied to the top of his head.

The "cub" is secured to the guard's head by a large chin strap that looks as if it's about to strangle the guard.

His uniform is military black - dark, inky military black.

His demeanor is "stern" - bordering on what I would call "if you touch me I'll kill you."

Several tourists stand in the early morning sun gawking at him.

Bob and I join the gawking party but frankly, I've had more fun watching snow melt.

So we decide to check out the action on Oslo's main drag: Karl Johannes Gate.

We walk down to the Domkirke - Oslo's old and stately cathedral.

Cathedral designs - both the exteriors and the interiors - always fire-up Bob's imagination.

I say to myself: "Bob is really going to enjoy seeing this church."

He pulls the handle of the ancient hand-carved door.

It's locked tighter than a drum.

We walk to the side entrance and I pull the handle to that door.

It's a no go.

We are both disappointed but this is particularly frustrating for Bob since this church will be our one and only cathedral stop in Oslo.

It's not a stretch to assume that the church is locked because of the early morning hour and we reluctantly leave the cathedral's grounds.

We reverse our steps and walk back up Karl Johannes Gate.

This wide avenue is filled with classy shops, lovely restaurants and a bounty of historic edifices.

Bob is having a field day taking pictures of all the architectural wonders on the Gate.

(The pronunciation for "Gate" in Norwegian is: ga -ta, by the way).

We pace ourselves so we will arrive just as the doors open for the day at the National Gallery of Art.

We arrive promptly at 10 a.m.

As we walk up the steps of the art museum I happen to notice a small sign to the left of the building.

It reads: "Museum opens at 11 a.m. on Saturdays."

And this is, of course, a Saturday!

I quickly inform Bob and say to him, "It looks like we have an hour to kill. What should we do?"

Bob attempts to spit it out, "There's a g - g- gi - gift shop across the street. Let's see if it's open."

Miraculously, it is!

Cautiously, I ask Bob, "Are you sure you want to go in there?"

We both know we are tempting fate but we are so completely bored we no longer care.

Like pigs shuffling off to the slaughterhouse, we open the door to the shop.

The die is cast.

We wander through the aisles of cutesy cards, figurines, stuffed animals and novelty chocolates for a few minutes until I discover racks of miniature art prints - copies of original paintings by Norwegian artists - near the check out counter.

I glance sideways at Bob as I lift the first art print out of it's slot on the rack.

I can feel his cold breath as it hits my neck.

His left eye begins to twitch.

His lip starts to quiver.

For the unaware, these are the tell tale signs of a person - usually male - who is entering the initial stages of "shopitis."

This condition is often associated with anyone who abhors shopping for longer than say - 16 seconds.

Bob has suffered from advanced shopitis since the very day of our marriage - nearly 40 years ago.

In fact, it was immediately after our wedding breakfast when Bob and I stopped by a woman's clothing shop in Orem.

I needed to purchase a very warm sweater for our trip to colder than cold Wyoming - the sight of our second open house in celebration of our wedded happiness.

I noticed the aggravated eye twitching and the sickening cold breath on my neck for the first time as we stood in that tiny store studying price tags.

Believe me, it was terrifying.

Not for him, of course.

For me.

It was in that shop that I realized my carefree days of blissful retail therapy were about to be seriously numbered.

These scary memories force cold shivers up my spine as I stand like a condemned woman in the gift shop.

Then I realize that Bob is getting antsy to the maxxxxxxxxxxxx.

He is walking up and down the aisles of the shop trying desperately to contain his mounting frustration.

Just like an FBI agent on surveillance, he steals agitated glances in my direction and waits for any possible signal from me that we are about to leave the store.

To make matters worse, he knows that I am going to hand over the plastic and actually pay for these items in mere seconds.

Then it happens.

I glance quickly across the shop and see Bob standing in the stuffed teddy bear aisle staring at me.

Our piercing eyes lock in utter horror.

When things progress to this point, I must purchase something, anything as soon as possible.

Or I will be forced to leave the shop with nothing.

Yes, that's right - I said NOTHING!!!!!!!

As far as I'm concerned, that's a fate worse than death.

I hurry and pay for the art prints as quickly as possible.

My heart is about to jump out of my chest.

In a matter of seconds, the deal is done.

Bob and I meet at the check-out counter as the cashier places my art prints in the bag.

Our only goal?

To get out of this shop immediately.

Preferably sooner.

As usual, Bob's breathing returns to normal as we exit the store.

We walk back up the street to the National Gallery.

Mounds of people are gathering on the steps of the museum waiting for the doors to open.

We jockey for position on the steps and wait several minutes before the guard unlocks the doors at 11:05 a.m.

Inside, Bob corners a guard and asks, "Can I take pictures of the art?"

The guard replies, "We don't allow photos in the galleries but you may take interior pictures of the remaining areas of the building if you wish."

I see Bob's hopeful expression change within seconds.

I know he is not happy.

He enjoys taking pictures of the art because he likes to stay BUSY.

We linger in the wonderful landscape gallery where many Norwegian artists shine brightly.

Stunning portraits of blonde-headed children in peasant dress catch our eyes in the next gallery.

The crowds thicken as we near the room that holds Edvard Munch's psychological masterpiece, "The Scream."

This painting is currently one of the most beloved works of art in the world.

People from all countries and every walk of life find it's stark emotionalism intriguing.

Bob finds it worthy of a one second glance on his way out of the gallery.

NOTE:

Please allow me to interpret the meaning of Mr. Munch's masterpiece for you.

Munch has painted his "screamer" at the exact moment his subject learns that he has been permanently assigned to the Fifth Circle of Hell.

He is caught in that very moment - eternally horrified as he realizes that the Fiftth Circle is where all of the gift shops are located.

Bob should have warned him.

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE THIRD CIRCLE

("I Won't Do It and You Can't Make Me"  Emoting Child by Gustav Vigeland, Oslo, Norway)

"We need to get off this ship as soon as possible," I said to Bob during breakfast.

I hastily added: "It's going to take us awhile to get out to Vigeland Sculpture Park and we don't have any time to waste today."

Bob glances at me and says: "We'll have plenty of time to do everything on our schedule if we are ready to go around 8 a.m."

We leave the Star Princess promptly at 7:15 a.m. (hey, we're burning daylight here!) and walk from the dock to the nearest taxi stand a few minutes away.

The taxi will take us to the center of Oslo where we will catch the trolley out to Vigeland Park.

But Bob, my strapping Viking for the day, boldly tells the taxi driver to take us directly to the sculpture park.

I nearly scream with joy!

There will be no "have we got the right trolley" worries on this glorious morning!

There will be no "this is taking forever" trolley transferring today!

My Viking has just hired a taxi for a DIRECT ride to the park, for goodness sake!

As a result of this noble, chivalrous decision I am going to experience a rare, blissful and stress-free sedan ride out to the "Oslo land of many sculptures."

I want to bow down and kiss Bob the Bold's filthy Viking boot!

On second thought.........

******

Vigeland Sculpture Park is a sight to behold in the early summer light.

Velvety green lawns blanket the entire area.

Blossoming roses in every color imaginable are scattered in flower beds too numerous to mention.

Stately trees and shimmering ponds round out this idyllic scene.

The park is dedicated to Gustav Vigeland - Norway's most beloved sculptor.

Fifty-eight bronzes of men, women and children flank the footbridge over the river that runs through the park.

These human forms are depicted going about their lives in its many dimensions - each figure as naked as a jaybird in June.

The sculptures are shown expressing feelings of joy, anger and sadness as they go about their everyday activities.

As we amble down the walkway into the sculpture gardens, Bob pauses and says to me, ""Do you want pictures of ALL of these sculptures?"

I gaze at him as if he has just arrived from Mars, "Yes, honey, of course, every single one of them!"

Stopping frequently to examine each sculpture in detail, I am delighted by these magnificent figures.

As usual, Bob is not wasting precious time.

He is busily engaged with his camera snapping pictures as quickly as his his nimble fingers will allow.

I turn to him and say, "Do you like these sculptures, honey?"

Stone faced, he slowly turns and glances at me and then returns to his camera.

That look can only mean one thing:

"These people/statues need to stop worrying about their emotional temperatures, put some clothes on and get busy doing something useful."

But, bless him, he doesn't say a word.

Instead, he waits for me to suck the very life out of him while I gush over the spectacular sculptures.

Let me be completely honest here - naked people emoting has never been Bob's thing.

So I reluctantly decide that my long suffering Viking has suffered long enough.

I look at Bob and say, "We'd better get moving if we want to see everything on our schedule."

He smiles and says, "Yes, dear."

We catch the trolley at the entrance to the park, leaving our clothes-free friends behind.

Hmmm.

I'm pretty sure that the inhabitants of Hell don't wear clothes either.

Why would they?

The temperature there is off the charts and the humidity?

Literally, unbearable.

Besides, I don't think modesty has a high priority in Hell.

It was time for me to admit the cold, hard truth.

I saw Bob enter the Third Circle of Hell the moment he laid eyes on those bare bottomed bronzes.

And I, unwittingly, had been his guide.

Just call me "Virgil."

BOB'S DESCENT INTO HELL: THE FIRST CIRCLE

(Dante:  He Hath Seen Well; Jean Leon Gerome; Artrenewal.com)

Note:  In the original version of Dante's "The Divine Comedy," Dante and Virgil visit the inhabitants of Hell as they wind their way through the nine circles of ever increasing depravity.  My next few blogs will depict the journey of their newest doomed companion - the longest of the long suffering - Bob.

If I'm completely honest about it, I have to admit that Bob's arrival in Norwegian Hell began the night before we arrived in Oslo.

Me being me, I felt duty bound to fully explain my increasing excitement at the thought that I would finally be walking on the same land that my Norwegian grandparents had trod over a century ago.

Our conversation went something like this:

Merry: "Now, honey, you know that I have waited nearly three million years to get to Norway."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: "And you know that we are going to be in Oslo barely seven hours."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: I know that you completely understand that our time there will be very precious to me."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: "I am so afraid that we might miss something very important."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: "And do you remember how I walked with you all over the beautiful village of Michelfeld, Germany where your grandparents were born?"

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: "I'm going to need that same support from you tomorrow when we visit Oslo."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Merry: "Basically, it comes down to this: if I ask you to do something in Oslo - even though it may seem ridiculous to you - I will need you to put your ideas and your feelings on the back burner and simply support my Norwegian experience in every way."

Bob: "Yes, dear."

Next, we discussed the setting of the all important alarm clock.

I wanted to see those little black hands land at 5:00 a.m.

Bob held out for 5:30.

We wisely decided to meet in the middle.

The alarm would be set for a sprightly 5:15 a.m.

This would give us enough time to eat breakfast and shower before we stepped off the ship and onto the hollowed ground of Norway in the early morning hours.

Fortunately, I awoke at 5:00 a.m. without the assistance of the pesky alarm.

I am using the word "fortunately" because Bob forgot to actually set the alarm.

I am going to take the high road here and assume that this was an honest mistake on his part.

But if I had decided to take the low road - which is my usual destination of choice - I might have accused him of deliberately trying to sabotage our already skimpy time in Oslo by "accidentally" setting the clock for 5:30.

I watched Bob sleep like a baby for what turned out to be the longest 15 minutes of my life.

Then I boldly startled him out of a deep and restful sleep with these fear-inducing words:

"Honey, it's time to get up!"

Magically, his eyes opened.

He stared at me and asked, "What time is it?"

I smiled at him and said, "It's time to arise and greet the beautiful city of Oslo!"

He stared at me blankly.

Stumbling, we crawled into our clothes and shuffled off to the Horizon Court for breakfast.

We crammed enough food down our gullets to stoke us for the next six millenia.

Then we waddled back to the Baja deck like the over stuffed penguins we eerily resembled and opened the door to our stateroom.

I quickly jumped into the shower stall that was mysteriously growing smaller every day.

I said to myself: "Girl, you have GOT to stop eating those to-die-for pastry swans stuffed with vanilla pudding every time you plop yourself down in the Horizon Court!"

Like that was seriously going to happen.

Minutes later, I clicked the blow dryer into high gear as I said to Bob, "Honey, you have to hurry. I don't want to miss a second of this day!"

From the bowels of the darkened closet I heard these words, "Yes, dear."

The inhabitants of Hell were already grinning.