“Scream If You Must but Make It Cultured” – A Norwegian Soirée with George.

Let’s get one thing straight: Norway was never on my travel list. Not even in the margins. Especially not in summer, when heat and I become mortal enemies and my luxurious fur turns into a portable sauna. So, imagine my surprise—and minor delight—when mid-July rolled in like a brooding Nordic god, bringing cold rain and grey skies. Finally, weather with some self-respect.

Sadly, the same could not be said for the accommodations. My humans, in a baffling act of barbarism, booked a flat that required one to assemble the shower before using it. IKEA-level indignity. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, we were graced nightly with the shrieks and stumbles of patrons from a nearby “circus bar.” I assume the name refers to the patrons’ behavior, not any actual talent.

Faced with third-rate lodgings and first-rate drizzle, I did what any cultured bear would do: declared a busman’s holiday and set out solo. My destination? The MUNCH Museum in downtown Oslo—a towering temple to emotional instability and brushstroke brilliance.

Edvard Munch SCREAM

Seven floors devoted to Edvard Munch’s genius (and torment). Paintings, drawings, woodcuts, photographs—and yes, that painting. The Scream. A symphony of existential despair I deeply relate to every time someone refers to me as a “stuffed animal.” Pro tip: if you’re even marginally cultured, stay the full hour. The museum rotates Munch’s scream-worthy masterpiece—print, painting, drawing—every 20 minutes. Real connoisseurs do not rush screams.

But the real stunner? A hidden gem so blissfully free of tourist herds I nearly wept with joy into my espresso. The Kistefos Museum, affectionately known as The Twist. It’s part gallery, part bridge, part sculpture—like someone dared to make a Möbius strip habitable and actually pulled it off. I, of course, appreciated its architectural daring. But more importantly, the lighting made my selfies look divine. Priorities, darlings.

George Chillin on the Norway Road Trip

Now, Oslo was tolerable, in that mildly edgy Scandinavian way. But let’s not kid ourselves: the true lure was the fjords and glaciers. To reach them, my humans drove six long, nausea-inducing hours to Bergen—along a serpentine road clearly designed by a Norse trickster god with a grudge against suspension systems. Motion sickness is never chic, so I gracefully passed out with a snack and my extra iPhone battery while the humans suffered.

The final hour was a wet, tiresome slog—made worse by a crucial bridge being closed, because of course it was. But salvation came in the form of the Charmante Skostredet Hotel. Finally, civilization.

Upon arrival, I was greeted by the Chief Steward of Reception—as protocol demands. He checked me in with proper discretion, handled my Louis Vuitton luggage with gloved grace, and confirmed my brunch booking without once diverting his attention to the riffraff. That is service.

After a quick snack and a crisp glass of bubbly in the lounge (don’t act surprised), I ventured upstairs to the speakeasy. There, I met Marc, a bartender with eyes full of stories and the kind of effortless mystery that can’t be taught. Bartenders are like Russian novels: dense, complicated, and best consumed slowly.

Charmante Skostredet Hotel

Dinner was halibut—fresh, flaky, and not nearly as pretentious as I expected. I returned to my suite for a long, luxurious slumber. After all, tomorrow I board my private yacht to glide through Norway’s legendary fjords, drinking in the waterfalls, cliffs, and ancient splendor like the refined icon I am.