Walking like a geisha through queer Oslo’s sleet-laden streets, I curse my lack of layers. I wanted to explore the area around my hostel; five minutes later, my teeth are clattering too much to continue. And I’m not the only one. This sort-of-pint-sized capital (population: 545,000) gets even sleepier of a February evening, when people hunker down early for the night.
I pass a quiet, cozy bar; the lure of an open fire proves too tempting. I step inside, and I’m not in Oslo anymore. Rather, I’m Alice in Emerald-Isle-Wonderland.
Never did I expect my first beverage in the city to be an Australian beer in an Irish pub. Then again, I’ve eaten Italian food in Bangkok, and Chinese food across America, and we’re living in an increasingly globalized world, right? Well, ultimately, I do live to regret my decision, when the time comes to settle up.
‘That’ll be €14 please,’ says the local bartender, recognizing me as a British tourist, nonplussed by the look of sheer horror on my face.
Yep, I’m definitely in Oslo after all.