I could get used to this: powering through books while sitting on the wooden deck overlooking the bay, listening the waves, the clinking of the masts, the seagulls, the urgent Norwegian voices calling after their children, their dogs, the blue skies with the fairweather clouds, the rustling of the wind in the silver birches. The endless cups of tea on the blue tablecloths, and cardamom rolls stuffed with too few sultanas. The small, sweet, yellow plums. The relief of the sunshine after the heavy greyness of four days of rain. The hazelnut brown color my skin is turning; a shade I can never attain in LA because it's too hot.
And then the Norwegian woods.
The ground is soft from the rain, with a bed of moss and pine needles, dotted with blueberries. I never tire of looking up.