JANUARY 2nd - We have just passed the arctic circle

January 2nd, 10:30

It is the second day of January, the tail end of the festivities, and I find myself at the Berlin airport in the morning on my way to the first stop that winter morning: Tromsø.  

I’m dressed in my pale, washed-out jeans and a Norwegian hand-knit sweater with the classic Seppala pattern, one I picked up in Skjervøy a year ago. My mom made me the most beautiful socks over Christmas—pale blue with a melange of pastel browns. Black boots and warm yellow expedition puffer jacket complete the look, and slung over my shoulder is a small dark-green backpack I got at a supermarket hiking section in Sørkjosen this June. It’s packed with books, notepads, a beanie and mittens. Only one thing I’ve forgotten: food. Turns out the plane doesn’t serve meals except from the bar-like-food card you need to order from, and the menu is uninspiring. I decide to wait till we land in Tromsø and grab something in town. 

At 14:52 Captain announces over the PA:“We have just passed the Arctic Circle and are now in the Arctic part of the world.”

I love landing in Tromsø. 

The winter dark magic of "The Gateway to the Arctic", the significant center for Arctic hunting and trade since 19th century, and the natural staging ground for anyone daring to challenge the Arctic’s icy grip on polar expeditions, is brought to life by the old town's shadowy charm, where cobblestone streets and historic wooden buildings are blanketed in deep snow, glowing with the warmth of Christmas lights that sparkle against the long polar nights. Against the backdrop of towering, snow-capped mountains, massive ships rest quietly in the harbor, their dark silhouettes contrasting with the warm festive glow, while the cold air carries the call of Arctic exploration and centuries of maritime adventure.

I know a second-hand shop in Tromsø that’s basically a Norwegian knitwear explosion, and that’s where, after fueling up with a pizza and a Red Bull at the 7-Eleven by the Dome, I waddle over in my best "I’m definitely making good decisions" stride. 

Half an hour later, I step out of the shop, clutching a massive paper bag stuffed with 319,25 euros worth of knitted wonders in various size, color, and shape imaginable. I might’ve just had a tiny, very inappropriate moment of joy staring at my shopping—who knew wool could be so... exhilarating? 

Walking past the Scandic Ishavshotel in the port I make my way up to the main square and catch a bus back to the airport, to depart on my way further north. After a ridiculously long queueing for security - lets not forget it’s the 2nd of January and apparently ALL the tourists are leaving Tromsø at the same time as I am - I make my way to the gate. We are only 6 passengers for the short 20-minute hop to Sorkjosen. Outside the windows, a light blizzard spins through the darkness, while small airplanes sit quietly on the snow-covered ground waiting patiently to be prepared for the next departure.

All six of us make our way past the gate, down the stairs and outside into the white tarmac towards the turboprop Dash 8-100 - it’s free seating and the stewardess sends me all the way to the back - in that moment I have to think about the horrific flight accidents from the end of 2024, where the only survivors were those sitting in the back of the plane. I send out a message to my dearest - „All the way back in the plane“ and the answers are short and meaningful: „Very good".  

The plane halts en route to the runway for a thorough de-icing, performed by a truck with a crane, before we proceed with takeoff. 

Around 20 minutes later I find myself landing in a place that feels like the edge of the world. Sørkjosen Airport, tucked into the Arctic folds of Norway, is a modest outpost swallowed by snow. 

The evening sky is ink-dark; here, above the Arctic Circle, the sun takes its leave by early afternoon, casting the land into a long, velvety darkness. 

Only forty-eight hours ago, I had been at the Paris Bar, awash in champagne and laughter, surrounded by friends and a swirl of artists whose stories wove themselves into the smoky air like silk. It all lingers faintly in my memory, a decadent counterpoint to the frosty nothingness that greets me now. 

I am heading to a house deep in the woods, away from everyone and everything, a deliberate shedding of the world's noise. There is a manuscript waiting to be written—a collection of short stories—and I need the cold, the stillness, and the solitude to coax it out. It feels as if I’ve stepped through some invisible door, from one life into another, and the snow, endless and unbroken, promises to keep the rest of the world at bay. 

Hilde is waiting for me at the airport, a small ash-blond figure wrapped in layers of wool and boots of seal fur, she greets me with a warm hug and a smile that is both warm and knowing, the kind of smile that comes from someone who has lived through endless winters and midnight suns, and seen all manner of souls in this remote corner of the world. 

„It’s me, again.“ I say, half apologetically, when we hug. I still get so humbled by people’s kindness and generosity, and she’s always been the very embodiment of both.

And then I ask her if she had eventually found my lost bra.

But we'll get back to this later.

She is native to these lands, Sami in her blood and her being, a keeper of the secrets carried by the wind over the frozen tundra. The house I am bound for is hers—a dark wooden sturdy cabin tucked into the woods. She is gift-lending it to me, as she now lives with her partner, with the graciousness of someone who understands what it means to need silence and space. 

We load my luggage into the back of her truck, then stop at the snowed-in supermarket that’s open late. Behind it, a towering mountain looms. I know the place well and already have a plan for the menu for the week of solitude ahead. My mom baked me a loaf of bread I took with me, and I carry another wrapped neatly in linen and tied with a ribbon as a gift for Hilde. I brought a jar of honey from friend who keeps bees, some oats, nuts and different kinds of teas. I buy meat, butter, oat milk, blueberries, sweet potatoes and apples. We drive against a heavy snowfall, the flakes swirling in the headlights. As we make our way through the forest to the hut, the snow-blanketed wilderness, her voice flows like a warm current. She tells me her daughter is pregnant, expecting a boy in mid-May. What a beautiful month to become a mother, she says. I smile, thinking of how it happened in the same month for me—and for my own mother. I am a May Child and a May Mother. 

We arrive at the cabin, buried under a thick blanket of snow at the end of a narrow road deep in the forest and carry my things inside. The few wooden steps to the house are covered in a fresh layer of snow. Inside, Hilde shows me everything I’ll need to know about the house. 

She had picked for me the bedroom I would have picked myself - the smallest, coziest one downstairs, furnished with antique-style single bed tucked into one corner, with elevated sides that rise well above the mattress level. A sealskin on the floor, a narrow antique desk sits under the window and a small beside table completes the simple arrangement. That’s all. The door leads into the living room where an antique black iron fireplace comes out of the wall opposite sofas and a table against a window. I have to wait till the light returns in the morning to see the mountains.  

As she leaves, the house already feels like it is mine, the kind of place that welcomes you not with grandeur but with quiet resilience. I stand in the middle of the living room, and feel something close to gratitude—a rare, unfettered gift. 

I unpack my groceries, my books, my teas and ceramics I carefully carried in my backpack. I make fire.