I'm not in the tropics, and yet I go bananas. After driving along Eikesdalsvatnet and stuffing myself with cherries, I renew my pledge to Norway to love it forever and ever. Norway knows that already. But you keep at it. There is always 'and then.' The good news is, then, that you can, then again, hike in the deep forest at 11 pm, in full sun. You are, however, protected by the trees and their leaves. There is no bad news. You don't even lament doing 13 km both ways to and from the spectacular Mardal waterfall, while thinking that this nature is too long, and you'd rather eat the lamb saag that you've planned on having for dinner. But the other smell, the forest smell is with me, and I feel the power. Norway's power. It has a hold on me. But I welcome it, and acknowledge it with grace. Or so I hope. The walking ends with inscribing names in the visitor's logbook. I write for the ghosts as well. A set of three Xes thus fall on the page, occupying slot number 740. Back at the cabin, enjoying the midnight sun, I'm having visions of visitors. Sure enough, wanderers more exhausted than I pass by: "no, this is not lodge number 6, this is lodge number 5." I fall into a prime reverie. Yes, I can insist on the perfect prime, as many times as it's necessary.


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