It was a warm, endless September day, filled with that light that turns the Oslo fjord into molten silver and makes the low hills shine after the first autumn rains. One of those days that make the residents of Oslo swear that they will never, ever leave this city. The sun was setting behind the ridge of Ullern and its last rays fell on the landscape, on the apartment blocks that spoke of the city's modest past, on the expensive penthouses with terraces that told the story of a country that overnight became one of the richest in the world because of oil, and on the drug addicts at the top of Stensparken, in this small and organized city where the drug death rate was eight times higher than in any other European city. On the gardens with trampolines surrounded by safety nets, where children never jumped more than three at a time, faithfully following the instructions, and on the hills and forests that encircled half of Oslo's basin. The sun stretched its radiant fingers over the city, unwilling to leave it, like an extended farewell through the window of a train.
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