So much white hair, grey hair, no hair. High-waisted pants. Spectacles on strings. Knitting, sitting. Silent dinners.

Rain all day. A man plays the accordion in the Horisont salong while the rain streams down the glass panes. We pull up to the docks at Bronnoysund, the rain making the town an Impressionist painting of blues and reds and greys, splotches of muted green in the background.

Yesterday evening, an excursion in the Lofoten, driving through so many little fishing villages: Svolvaer and Henningsvaer and Borge and Stamsund. Mountains and valleys and trees and rocks, and bright dandelions everywhere. At Henningsvaer, racks and racks of cod hanging to dry while the gulls, foiled, circled above the netting.

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.

Late at night on the MS Midnatsol, a turtlelike man in a straw boater plays the electronic keyboard and sings a wavering tune, what I suppose is a Norwegian oldie but goodie. On the patch of linoleum, two couples, themselves oldies but goodies, twirl in the yellow light and cigarette smoke.

I am just done with breakfast on the MS Midnatsol (Midnight Sun), this coastal steamer taking us south from Harstad to Trondheim. The breakfasts, oh, the breakfasts. You hear “Norway,” you don’t immediately think “breakfast”—but you should. Four-grain breads and Wasa crispbread, soft-boiled eggs and caviar paste, herring, herring, herring. Also, geitost, a local goat’s cheese that is brown like caramel and sweet like caramel. Mmm. If you are lucky, you can eat it with fresh berries on a Wasa cracker. If you are less lucky, you eat it with jam on a Wasa cracker. Either way, you are plenty lucky.

Arrived in Oslo four days ago. Upon entering Ah Khim Ee-ee’s Oscars gate flat, she said: “Would you like some toast and smoked mackerel? or smoked herring? or smoked cod? or—” I mean, well, “Yes!” Then a walk in Vigeland Park with Mowmy, where a smellicious grilled chicken symphony filled the air, and the Oslo Swing Club danced the evening away.



Oslo is full of surprising things, like the Kon-Tiki Museet—an intriguing tribute to the very blond, very tanned Thor Heyerdahl—the Frammuseet, dedicated to the boat (that would be the Fram) that sailed to both the North and South poles—and the open-air Norsk Folkemuseum, which is a landscape of seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century villages and towns. We entered a 1650 farmhouse and were taken by surprise when dude in costume rose from reading in a dark corner to welcome us. “Are you mad? I am your seventeenth-century farmer.” Then he saw Mowmy’s SLR, and got quite excited talking about his Nikon.

Thursday after a sugar brioche and a bowl of mocha at the Apent Bakeri on Colbjornsensgate, a quick jaunt down Karl Johans for a look-see and then speeding along, luggage in hand, to catch the train to the bus to the plane to Harstad. Funny thing about not finding a place on the map, sometimes it turns out said place is above the Arctic Circle. And me with a bag of summer clothes. Where Oslo was all blue skies and sunny sun and warm skin, Harstad was grey and drizzling and chillywilly. Hands shoved in pockets, walk out on the pier where a curious seagull is a spot of bright white against the shades of grey.