When I was a kid, my grandparents were going to Norway a lot. For months at the time, every other year. I think eleven times in total. They were living in their massive motor home that my grandpa was driving. I grew up sitting proudly next to him in the copilot’s seat, pretending to read the map when going on smaller local adventures.

When he got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, they sold the motor home, too big for him, and bought a camper van until eventually, he couldn’t drive any vehicle anymore. 

As he was losing himself, I decided to drive up there. I needed to go see what he was forgetting. To print Norway in my own memory so it would carry on existing through me, a little bit longer. I left alone, driving that same camper van that my grandmother let me borrow. 

I drove for three months. Sixteen thousand two hundred fifty kilometres. All the way to the North Cape, the northernmost point of Europe, through Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark and Sweden. I devoured Norway. I savoured every single bite. I drove relentlessly every day, until my eyes got red, always wanting to see more, feel more, take more pictures.

I can still feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my left arm. I can still hear the rain on the roof that no singing can cover, no matter how loud. I will never forget that first breath of fresh air when you slide the side door open at dawn. I will always remember my hitch-hiker companions, that were supposed to be dropped at the next town, but stayed with me for a week. I will forever miss my van, old and slow and that broke down twice, but that I loved like a friend.

And I have never stopped wanting to go back. Just like them.