At the end of the world or simply Å

The start in Fredvang promises Norwegian weather – that is: headwind, of course, and clouds that can't decide whether they are just threatening or about to take action.

The road winds its way over rocks and concrete stilts like a gibbon with a fear of heights – only to suddenly disappear into a tunnel, as if it had had enough of its own drama.

Left: ocean. Right: more ocean. In between: fishing villages, clad in red, nailed to stilts like props from an old Nordic fairy tale that no one has finished telling. One wonders how people live here—and why.

Finally: Å. The last letter, the last place, the last sound. Not a city, more like a noise. Somewhere between an exhausted sigh and an astonished thud.

Luckily, there's cappuccino here. Against all odds.