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About Oslo

Picture this: beat-up Escort, 1982, rattlin’ down some Russian backroad. Like the boys in the movie—“Where are we going?” Dunno, mate, but it’s movin’. Gave me chills, that film—father’s a ghost, car’s a relic. Escort’s the same, a fossil with soul. Used to see ‘em everywhere, cheap as chips, like 5 grand back then. Now? Collectors drool over ‘em—mint ones hit 20k easy. Shocked me, that. Who’d pay that for a tin can?

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So, I leave the café, feeling a mix of excitement and dread. I wander down to the beach at Jorpelandstranda. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It’s beautiful, but I can’t shake off the anxiety. I sit on the sand, watching the waves crash.

Remembering the life of Lois Jorpeland