HARDANGERFJORD, Norway: I wake in a resort built for merchant-princes. My brain staggers back over the eight-hour layover, the connecting flight, the long drive through darkness. What continent is this again?
I spot a bidet. Must be Europe.
Much as I like my job, it has disorienting moments like this.
Before I'm fully conscious or caffeinated, I'm zipped into a survival suit and tossed into a Zodiac. The rubber boat slaps up the fjord. I sit right in the bow, one hand laced under the plastic lifeline, the other holding the peaky hat.
"Edward, we're in Norway," I say to my friend. We've burned through a lot of passport pages together this year: Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, England, Canada and now here.
"Good observation," he replies. "Say, you really are a highly trained professional."