Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.
The late evening light turns a milky blue as it casts across the gleaming white marble of the opera house. Designed to look like an iceberg, floating in the Oslofjord, the building is a marvel.
It starts as it always does. Planning has taken months: the whole thing now feels more like an intellectual exercise in exploring distant cities through the magic of the internet than it does a holiday. Then, with a queasy bump, it is upon you. Grab your bags; get to the airport. Now.