At Stokmarknes yesterday afternoon, we got off the ship to a sharp scent of salted fish. Nyup, nyup, nyup. An hour on land is enough time to walk into town, poke around in the local supermarket to look at packaging—like the bright pink box of “God morgen” eggs—and pop into a bakeri for a slice of cake: “What's this?” “Something-somethingkaka.” “Uhm.” “It means ‘world’s best cake.’” “Oh!” “Is it the world’s best cake?” A look of are-you-screwing-with-me. “Yes.” “. . .” “I’ll take it!!” Later that night, the world’s best cake and a cup of hot blackcurrant tea. Light, and vanilla. Mowmy said it was like eating clouds.