Bright Midnight Halle, Karina (books for 5 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📖

I head down the steps, taking in the fresh scent of the rain and trying to find the positive. I’ve decided to spend another day in Oslo, but then I’m hoping on a train and heading up north, where I really want to go.

My heart starts to thud at the thought, an uneasiness running through me. So far I have plans for the train to take me to Trondheim, then I might go up north to Tromso in the Arctic Circle before heading back down the coast, maybe taking the ferry along the fjords. There’s a million different places to explore in this tall, narrow country, and yet the fact that I’m going to Trondheim puts me a bit on edge.

Trondheim is supposed to be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Anders Johansen, the reason I became so obsessed with Norway to begin with.

“You up for seeing the royal palace, Shay?” the dad inquiries as I approach them, making the thought of Anders vanish from my mind. “You’re not cold?”

I shake my head and give them all my most placating smile. “Not at all. The palace sounds wonderful.” I smile at Michelle. “I’ve always wanted to see a princess, haven’t you?”

“We’ve seen the Duchess of Cambridge drive past us in their car,” Stuart says, sounding both bored and proud. “She had her finger up her nose.”

“Stuart,” his mom quickly admonishes him, while the dad tries to bite back a laugh. “We don’t talk about Kate Middleton that way.”

“Well,” I say to them, “I’ve read that the princess of Sweden was a commoner when she first met the prince.”

“Like you and me?” Michelle asks. “Ordinary people?”

“That’s right. Which means it’s possible for any girl to become a princess if she wishes.”

“It means you have to live with a boy though,” Stuart says smartly. “That isn’t me. He’d probably be worse than me.”

Michelle draws her lip between her teeth and seems to think it over. “I don’t know. I bet I could find out a way to be a princess without having to live with any boys.”

I grin at her parents. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Yeah, hope she keeps it that way,” her father says, as we head off out of the park.

The rest of the day goes fairly well. We find our way to the palace, which is perched at the end of Oslo’s most iconic streets, presiding over it like a giant wedding cake, and watch the guards do their serious strutting while Stuart does some pretty funny commentary over it. Seems all Brits are born with the best sense of humor.

Our hotel is near the palace, so we end up parting ways afterward, with me giving the family my email and Instagram name in case they want to keep in touch. Even though it was a bit awkward at times having spent the day with this family—and I’m pretty sure I’ve given them an experience they’ll remember, if not rather forget—as I walk back alone, I’m hit with a pang of sadness. It’s the same feeling that I got last night, after I Facetimed with Amber and texted my sister, the realization that even though I want to be here, everyone I’m close to is a million miles away.

And the one person that I might know here is someone I never wanted to see again.

To quell the loneliness and take advantage of the calm weather, I make my way through fairy-tale like streets with swarming restaurants and boutiques begging to be shopped, taking artsy shot after artsy shot for my Instagram, hoping it will quiet this feeling. I duck into a warm-looking coffee shop, a cup of Joe the only thing remotely affordable in this city, and bring out my Kindle, flipping through to my Lonely Planet guide to Norway. The comforting smells of ground coffee and cardamom-glazed pastries permeate the air and I gather up the courage to book the train to Trondheim.

I drink my coffee slowly as I try and come up with a game plan. I take out my journal from my purse and spread it out on the gnarled wooden table and make a list of places I want to see, things I want to do. I have three months here if I want to use them, but, just in case, I plan for only one month. The country is going to rob my finances faster than I thought and I don’t think it’s easy to get a job without being a citizen.

Then, of course, there’s the question of “what happens after that?” But I don’t want to let myself think that far ahead.

My life beyond this trip is one looming black hole.

The coffee shop is near closing—its grown quiet with only faint singer-songwriter music playing and a barista bent over, sweeping between empty tables—when I think I’ve figured out my travel plan. Since I actually do want to head up north and bask in the nights where the sun doesn’t set, I decide to leave tomorrow to take the train up to the city of Trondheim and figure out the best route to the Arctic Circle. I like Oslo enough, but that’s not why I came here. It’s better to start anew tomorrow.

Feeling better with a plan, I snap the journal shut and, using the free wi-fi, upload an earlier picture of my latte to Instagram, with the caption: Travel planning in an Oslo café. Decided to head up via train to Trondheim tomorrow. So far, Norway is everything I hoped it could be.

Of course, I made it sound like I was having a better time than I am, like I’ve found myself here. I mean, that’s kind of the point of social media sometimes, isn’t it? Burying your reality, post by post.

And even though I’ve tried my hardest not to think about him all day, on the walk back from the coffee shop to the hotel, through the dying light of a nine