There's such a terrific rain in Grünerløkka today. The sort that makes strangers smile at each other as they huddle under newspapers and parapets, waiting for the tumbling grey to relent so they can brave the puddles and go to work. On days like these, I wish I could spirit my beloved Dromedar across the mountains and years.


I would open the narrow, white door of the café, and the bell would ring, and my favourite table with a view of the cathedral would be free. Because who ventures out in such weather? Only me, and the silent blonde girl with her tattered paperbacks, and the barista, who grins and starts my cardamom latte without even asking.


Smiling back, I shrug out of my rain gear: my grandmother's thick, white oilskin jacket, my "southwester" hat, already steaming in the warmth of the tiny room. And there's cookie jazz playing, and the blueberry muffins are fresh from the oven, and heavy drops are pelting the cobblestones outside.


As I sit there, trying to glimpse the green of the cathedral spire through the mists, an idea blooms in my head. What if a story began, right there, across the street, in the red, crooked house I've always pictured in that empty lot. What if it starts with a girl, staring out into the rain, unaware that she is already dreadfully late. I smile a little to myself. And then my latte is ready.


Photos: Lin and johnsarelli