The moment I stepped into Oslo Airport, it took my breath away. The terminal’s interior, a study in the sophisticated simplicity of Nordic design, incorporated an abundance of natural wood. Even the floor in the immigration hall was planked in timber, its beauty and warmth radiating not just visually, but up from the soles of my feet. A pleasant scent of the forest drifted through the air – a natural fragrance that seemed to tap into some primal sense of well-being.
While airports worldwide utilize wood, I’d never encountered one so dedicated to achieving harmony with nature.
"This is the first time I haven't minded waiting in an immigration line," I remarked to the officer. He winked, flashing a grin. "Of course! It's the best workplace ever." His easygoing manner was infectious. While I'm not the type of traveler who instantly falls in love with every country I visit, I found myself immediately captivated by Norway.
My journey continued northward on a domestic flight. The destination: the Arctic Circle, deep within the wind-swept northern reaches of the Scandinavian peninsula. My first stop was Tromsø, the largest city north of the Arctic Circle, despite its modest population of around 60,000.
Stepping onto the tarmac at the snow-and-ice-bound Tromsø airport, the air was so cold it stung. The thermometer read 1 degree Celsius (34°F). Surrounded by frozen wilderness and snow-capped mountains, there was already a palpable sense of being at the 'edge of the world.' Yet, this was only 69 degrees North latitude. The true northernmost point of Europe, my ultimate goal, was still a long way off. Still, I had crossed the Arctic Circle (66°33' N), entering a realm of the midnight sun in summer and the sunless polar night in winter. To put this in perspective for someone from Japan, our northernmost point, Cape Sōya, sits at 45°31' N – Tromsø’s latitude felt worlds away, beyond my usual geographical frame of reference.
Tromsø’s airport, though small, was efficient, feeling like a modern regional Japanese airport infused with Nordic design sensibilities. A sign advertised one hour of free Wi-Fi. Attempting to connect, I found it required receiving a password via text message (SMS). With my phone showing no signal, I was stuck until the woman at the kiosk casually offered, "You can just use my phone." Perhaps it's characteristic of Nordic people—reserved and quiet at first glance, yet possessing a genuine, unassuming warmth.
I needed the internet connection to book my onward flight further north. I knew Norway had excellent IT infrastructure and well-developed LCCs (Low-Cost Carriers), so I'd intentionally waited. Sure enough, on the website of Widerøe, a regional airline affiliated with SAS, I easily booked a seat on a flight departing in just 90 minutes. The fare, reflecting Norway's notorious high cost of living and steep 25% VAT, was startling, but still comparable to a standard domestic flight back home – acceptable.
The Widerøe flight carried me away from Tromsø towards Honningsvåg, the gateway to Nordkapp (North Cape), the northernmost point of mainland Europe. My aim wasn't just to reach a geographical extreme for tourism's sake, but to see firsthand how people lived in such a place.
The aircraft was a 39-seat Bombardier Dash 8 turboprop. Besides myself, about twenty other passengers were onboard – a mix of business travelers, families, a middle-aged woman, young people. It felt like a local bus route serving remote communities. At a stopover in Hammerfest, most passengers disembarked, leaving only five of us for the final leg.
Suddenly, the tall captain emerged from the cockpit. Resting a hand on a forward seat, he addressed us directly, without the microphone. Checking if English was okay for me, he explained why he wanted to delay departure slightly. This aircraft was scheduled to make the last flight back to Tromsø after reaching Honningsvåg, a return trip that wouldn't stop in Hammerfest. Two passengers booked on that final return flight were currently en route to the airport, and he wanted to wait for them. I was touched by this gesture of solidarity in this remote, harsh environment, reminiscent of the mutual support found in exploration teams. Sure enough, the two passengers arrived within five minutes. The captain's consideration and clear explanation offered a glimpse into Nordic integrity.
We chatted more, and when I asked about flying in the Arctic, he answered matter-of-factly, "Nothing particularly unusual." He continued, "We're an airline with 80 years of history. We've been flying through sub-zero blizzards and handling landings on frozen runways since the days of single-propeller planes." His words held the quiet pride and confidence reminiscent of a seasoned northern fisherman.
Flying at a low altitude, the windows revealed an endless expanse of frozen rock, icy lakes, and dramatic fjords stretching below. It was a landscape utterly devoid of any sign of life. A growing sense of awe mixed with unease washed over me – "I've come somewhere truly wild," I thought.
Honningsvåg Airport was a tiny facility facing a fjord inlet. A relentless, biting wind and swirling snow served as the welcoming committee. The modest building, barely a terminal, was manned by just two staff: one person acting as airport manager, dispatcher, and check-in agent rolled into one, and a security officer handling everything from screening to baggage claim. It was the ultimate expression of airport minimalism. I needed a taxi to the town center, but my phone had no signal, and I had no coins for a payphone. The two staff members were busy managing the turnaround flight. Just as I began to feel stranded, one of the young Nordic beauties from my flight, meeting her equally striking sister who had come to pick her up, quietly but readily offered me a ride. This silent, warm consideration, I was learning, might just be the way of the people here.
In the car, I learned they were sisters originally from Honningsvåg. The older sister had quit her job in Tromsø and found new work near home. The younger was a university student in Tromsø. "The scenery around here is incredible," the older sister laughed. "Just walk around town, and you might not need to see any other fjords!" After a short five-minute drive, they dropped me at my hotel and drove away quietly, as if their act of kindness were nothing at all. Reserved, kind, with a quiet dignity—they seemed to embody the Nordic charm I was starting to discover.
Arriving at the hotel without a reservation, I found I was the only guest. "You have the place to yourself," the manager declared. It had the typical feel of an off-season tourist town. At the front desk, I learned that reaching Nordkapp this time of year was difficult; regular buses and tours were suspended, leaving chartering an expensive taxi as the only option.
Honningsvåg, home to just over 2,000 people, features houses clinging to the slopes between the steep fjord mountains and the sea. It thrived as a fishing hub for the northernmost part of the peninsula and becomes a port of call for large cruise ships from around the world in the summer – which explains the impressive harbor facilities relative to the town's small main street.
What immediately catches the eye on the hilly streets are the vibrant colors of the buildings. The entire town is painted in the characteristic Nordic design palette—bright yet muted hues. In this land overlooking fjords and the Barents Sea, even at noon in autumn, the sun hangs low, casting light like early morning or late evening back home. In winter, the sun doesn't rise at all. Perhaps it's precisely because of this harsh, often grey environment that people instinctively seek color in their daily lives. It was a striking sight to see residents briskly heading out for walks, almost in unison, the moment the sun broke through the clouds.
From the ship's deck, braving the biting wind, the views were breathtaking. There was a sense of desolation unique to these remote lands, yet on clear days, the Arctic sea reflected spectacular sunrises and sunsets that seemed to last for hours. At night, if conditions were right, the aurora borealis (Northern Lights) would dance across the sky. Watching pods of small whales trailing the ship's wake, occasionally flipping their tails, felt like witnessing a privileged sight unique to these waters.
The passengers were a mix of international tourists taking advantage of the off-season fares and locals traveling between ports. Unlike a luxury cruise line, there was no flashy entertainment, but comfortable lounges, a library, and free Wi-Fi throughout the ship ensured a pleasant journey. Everyone seemed to be savoring the slow, unhurried passage of time unique to the Arctic.
The next morning, arriving with timetable precision, we docked in Kirkenes. This was the northeastern tip of the Scandinavian peninsula, the end point of my journey. The port was orderly but lacked any touristy feel. Dominated by truck traffic and warehouses, its character was clearly that of a logistics hub. Indeed, Kirkenes is only about four miles (6 km) from the Russian border, a place historically and economically tied to Russia to the east and Finland to the south. It also bears the scars of history, having been an important German military base during the Nazi occupation in World War II.
I had come expecting the 'Norwegian frontier,' the 'end of the earth,' but I realized this place, geographically remote as it felt, has always been a vital, world-connected crossroads. The supermarket near the port stocked Russian vegetables alongside fruit from Southern Europe and Australia. A souvenir shop displayed photos of border tourism. Construction sites employed workers who appeared to be of South Asian origin.
Gazing at the weak sunlight even near noon, casting long shadows on the frozen ground, I reflected. Politics and economics aside, it struck me under the clear Kirkenes sky that in the daily lives of the people who make their homes here, even in this frigid land, there are essentially no borders.
The return journey involved another 36 hours on the Hurtigruten back to Tromsø, followed by a domestic flight to Oslo. This trip offered insights into the Norwegian character: reserved and understated, yet possessing an unshakable confidence in their country and way of life. Their acceptance of the harsh environment, the excellent IT infrastructure, the precise operation of transportation networks – perhaps it was just rosy retrospection after a good trip, but I felt a certain resonance with Japan and its people.
Certainly, Norway faces challenges: the high cost of living, a heavy tax burden, societal issues surrounding immigration. But the commitment to harmony with the environment, the pursuit of a prosperous society on a different path from many other industrialized nations – seeing this reflected in the towns and the people's demeanor was the greatest reward of this journey.
Back in Oslo Airport, waiting for my flight home, I noticed a passage inscribed in Japanese on the terminal floor. It was from the Hávamál (Sayings of the High One), attributed to Odin, the highest god in Norse mythology – wisdom from the Viking age:
"A man requires wisdom when far he fares,
At home all is easy;
But he who knows nothing and sits among the wise,
Becomes a mark of shame."
(Hávamál The Poetic Edda）
Ah, so the Norwegians and their ancestors are travelers. Indeed, long before Columbus reached the Americas, they were crossing the Atlantic in fleets of small ships. Perhaps the sense of kinship I'd felt since first arriving stemmed from a shared traveler's DNA. It was a thought, a warmth, that stayed with me until the very last moment of my journey.