Read Time:3 Minute, 41 Second
Trygve Harald Amundsen, 73, reentered the cafe where he has drank coffee with a group of friends every morning for the past ten years and, after a look around the once-familiar space that has literally been turned sideways after a month-long renovation, picked out after a momentary glance a long table near the new counter where they’ll gather from now on.
“It’s nice,” he said while paying for his coffee while nodding an inquisitive colleague toward their new table. “We have our special space back.”
About Post Author
Mark Sabbatini
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation.
Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads.
But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.