The rain has been falling on Oslo since before I woke, a steady, patient drum against the window that shows no sign of letting up. It is the kind of rain that does not shout, just settles in for the day, and I find myself matching its pace, slow and deliberate, as I pull on my raincoat and step out into the grey August morning.
My first stop is the post office in Grønland, where I need to send off a package of documents back home—nothing glamorous, just the last of the paperwork that could not be digitised. The streets here are quieter than usual, the usual bustle of the neighbourhood muffled by the downpour, and I am grateful for the cover of the awnings as I dodge puddles that have already started to form on the asphalt.
Inside, the post office is a small, fluorescent-lit space with a queue that moves with the same deliberate slowness as the rain outside. The woman at the counter is patient with my hesitant Norwegian, and I manage to get the package weighed and stamped without too much fumbling. It costs about 180 kroner to send, which feels steep for a few sheets of paper, but I remind myself that this is the price of tying up loose ends.
From there, I decide to walk the long way back, through the side streets of Grønland where the shops are a jumble of languages and colours—halal butchers, African grocers, a small kiosk selling SIM cards and phone accessories. The rain has driven most people indoors, but a few brave souls huddle under shop awnings, smoking and watching the water run in rivulets toward the drains. I stop at a small café on the corner, the kind that does not have a name I can pronounce, and order a coffee that costs about 45 kroner. It is bitter and strong, and it warms my hands as I stand by the window, watching the street empty and fill again with umbrellas.
By mid-morning, the rain has not let up, so I make my way to the Deichman library, the big new one by the opera house. I have been meaning to come here since I arrived, and today feels like the right day for it—a day for being inside, surrounded by books and the quiet hum of other people doing their own small tasks. The building is all glass and light, even in the grey, and I find a seat near the window overlooking the fjord, where the water is a churning slate grey, white-capped and restless.
I spend an hour there, not really reading, just letting the place settle into me. I look up how to check the status of my D-number application—it has been four days now, and I am told it can take up to two weeks, so I am not worried, just eager. The bank account at DNB is still pending that number, and I am beginning to feel the loop of it, how each step in Norway seems to wait on the last one. I write a list in my notebook: buy a proper umbrella, find a good fish soup place, figure out the bus replacement routes for the metro line that is still down.
The metro disruption is a small thing, but it has become a daily companion. The Line 4 and 5 are cut between Majorstuen and Sognsvann, and between Majorstuen and Nydalen until mid-August, so the students and the commuters are all riding the replacement buses, which crawl through the streets at a pace that seems to mock the press of the day. I took the 4B yesterday, just to see where it went, and it wound through the university campus, past Blindern and Ullevål stadion, everyone with their heads down, headphones in, the rain streaking the windows. It is worth checking the Ruter app before you head out, I have learned that much.
When the rain finally softens to a drizzle, I decide to walk toward the Opera House. It is a landmark I have seen from the outside but have not yet climbed, and I think today, in the grey, it might be the right mood for it. The marble slopes are slick with rain, and I take my time, stepping carefully, the city opening up behind me as I rise. From the top, Oslo looks compact and manageable, the fjord on one side, the fjell on the other, and I can see the ferries tracing their lines across the water, heading for the islands or maybe for the Oscarsborg fortress, where I am told there is an opera festival on this week. I have not been, but the idea of it—opera in a fortress courtyard, reached by boat—feels very Norwegian to me, very calm and orderly.
I come down from the Opera House and cross the bridge to the Munch Museum, which I visited on my first day here. Today I do not go in; instead, I walk around the outside, looking at the building's strange, leaning form against the wet sky. On a day like this, even the art seems to be waiting, holding its breath until the sun returns.
By early afternoon, I am hungry, and I duck into a place I have walked past a few times, Elias mat & sånt, a small lunch counter on the quieter edge of Aker Brygge. The menu is written on a blackboard above the counter—open-faced sandwiches, soups, a daily hot dish—and I order the fiskesuppe, the fish soup that has become something of a quest for me here. It costs about 270 kroner, which translates to something like twenty-five dollars, and it comes in a deep bowl, creamy and fragrant with dill, with chunks of salmon and white fish and a boiled potato on the side. I eat it slowly, watching the rain run down the window, and I think that this might be one of the most perfectly reasonable meals I have had in weeks.
After lunch, I wander through Aker Brygge, past the glassy office buildings and the yachts bobbing in the marina, their rigging clinking softly against the masts. Even in the rain, there are people out—tourists with guidebooks, locals with dogs, a few swimmers, impossibly, by the Sørenga beach, where I did my morning swims earlier this week. I could not imagine getting in the water today, but I admire them from a distance, their bright swim caps bobbing in the grey.
The afternoon stretches out in a blur of small errands. I need a new SIM card, since the one I bought at the airport has been acting up, and I find a Telia shop on Karl Johans gate where the young man behind the counter helps me sort it out in five minutes. The SIM costs 199 kroner, and the data plan is about 299 a month, which feels manageable. I also pick up a proper rain jacket from a sports shop on the same street, a deal at 1,499 kroner, on sale from the summer stock. It is a lot, but I have been wet every day since I arrived, and I am learning that in Norway, you do not fight the weather—you dress for it.
As the evening closes in, the rain has stopped, and the clouds are breaking apart, showing thin strips of pale blue and gold. I walk back toward the centre, past the Royal Palace now, its gardens quiet and dripping, and I stop at the 7-Eleven on the corner for a coffee because I am cold, and because their coffee is only 25 kroner. It is not a special coffee, but it is hot, and I stand by the window, watching the city shift from day to evening, the lights flickering on in the apartment blocks and the trams clattering by, full of people heading home.
I think about the day, how quiet it has been, how full of small, unremarkable tasks. There is a temptation, when you move somewhere new, to fill every hour with discovery, to be endlessly amazed by your own arrival. But the truth is that a life is made of days like this one—errands and queues and cups of coffee, the weather a constant companion, the city slowly becoming familiar. I am told the D-number will come, and the bank account, and the tax card, and all the other small pieces that will make this place feel like home. For now, I am learning to be patient, to let the rain do its work, to trust that the slow work of settling is its own kind of adventure. In the meantime, there is always another bowl of fish soup, another walk by the fjord, another day to figure out the buses.
I walk home through the Vestkant, past the townhouses and the little parks, the air clean and washed. The fjord is a dark mirror on my left, and the city is quiet around me, settling into its evening. I think about tomorrow, and the day after, and all the days I have here. Hei, I say to the empty street, and I mean it as a hello and a goodbye all at once. This is the work, and it is good.