It has been strangely hard to get over jetlag. It’s barely 8pm before I can hardly keep my eyes open and I have a feeling this is going to be messed up even further the moment I get into the Polar night in Svalbard. On the positive side, that means I’m up with lots of time to spare – I can eat breakfast, go out and still be in time to enjoy the slow sunrise at Holmenkollen (what looks to be a very affluent residential area as well as a ski recreation area) on Line 1 of the T-bane.
There were already those who were training for competitions at that early hour and I was the only incongruous one in jeans with a camera as I tried to capture the best hues of the morning light. Half a day was spent just admiring the sheer, steep drop from the ski jump and on impulse, I took the train up to Frognerseteren and having lost my water bottle after slipping on ice, decided against taking the longer hike towards Sognsvann. Like I did seven years ago, I found myself heading downhill towards Holmenkollen once again and this time, I followed the trail down. It’s a lot easier than it seems despite the conflicting signs and the lack of water.
Oslo has been all about retreading old footprints this time around, and that includes cringing every time I pay for something. I wandered the streets more thoroughly, enjoyed the cold air, bought an assortment of weird Bric-à-brac (luggage tags, apples and a pair of mittens meant for a 14-year-old that fit my hands) and simply took in the scenes of the Christmas market by twilight at Karl Johan’s gate.