I’m obsessed with time.
Ever since I learned the big hand is on the something, and the little hand is on the something else, I attached to the concept like it was my identity. It constrains me, though, so when I see an Instagram story about a magical little place this side of heaven with no time whatsoever, I watch it.
Sommarøy in Northern Norway is a place of stunning beauty, the reel says, but it’s also a timeless place. And when they say timeless, they mean there are no 24-hour clocks there, and people hang up their watches on the bridge to the island as a symbol of their desire to forget all about time.
Husband watches with me and searches online to find out where this place is and if we can even get there from here. He finds out it’s a little over $500 roundtrip.
“That’s not bad,” I say.
“But a person has to fly to Dallas Fort Worth and from there to Helsinki.”
I nod. “Maybe that makes sense.”
“Then fly from Helsinki to Tromsø for right around $500.”
“Oh.”
“And then rent a car,” Husband goes on, “to drive an hour to Sommarøy.” My brows furrow now, and he’s still talking. “It takes almost twenty-four hours to get there and thirty-one hours to get home.”
“But while we’re there,” I say, “at least we’re freezing in a place where we’re lost to time.”
He’s still in research mode, tapping away on his phone. “We could always rent a car and drive six hours to Kiruna, the northernmost city in Sweden, and get three countries on our Been app.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little dangerous to take a road trip from one city to another inside the Arctic Circle?” I say.
But Husband is too busy finding rental cars to answer. “Looks like almost 100% of the vehicles are electric, which seems odd in a super cold environment.”
He wonders aloud if there are enough plug-ins on our route to Sweden and learns gas stations are scarce, so we’d have to carry gas cans or batteries, depending on the car.
What he’s saying is of utmost importance—life and death, really—but I’ve lost interest. My original idea of an idyllic village outside of time where I can sleep, drink coffee, shop, and view the Northern Lights from November through February feels a little terrifying, albeit gorgeous. Maybe we visit and do our Arctic road trip between May 18 and July 26 when the sun refuses to set, and we can forego sleep because that would be something to write about.
“Any chance of us driving to Oslo?” I say.
My travel agent pecks again at his minuscule keyboard. “It would take twenty-two and a half hours to drive there from Sommarøy.”
“That’s insane. Twenty-two hours?”
“Twenty-two and a half.” He clicks away. “And if you want to visit your rellies in Finnmark, that would be a six-and-a-half-hour drive northeast of Sommarøy.”
Drops of Sami blood from my mother’s side pulse through me I learned in more recent years, but I don’t know if we have relatives in Finnmark anymore. Still, the otherworldly temptation dazzles, and I see my fictitious self (the one who likes cold plunges), who is very different from my real self (the one who shivers in an eighty-degree pool), poise to book the flights right now.
Thoughts of our traveling friends skitter to mind, and we want to take them along if we’re doing this thing. Half of the four of us, however, have already nixed the possibility of Iceland for the cold, and the same half of us weren’t fond of Ireland’s unheated restrooms with their brisk toilet seats in March either. Maybe our adventurous besties wouldn’t have the time of day for our shenanigans, but if we went to Sommarøy, they wouldn’t have to worry about that.
We learn a little more about the timelessness of the destination and how its inhabitants declared their home the world’s first time-free zone, petitioning the Norwegian government to abolish civil time on the island. I also read how that might not be accurate but instead a genius way to coax tourists to visit.
If it’s true, though, I have hundreds of questions about work in Sommarøy, how the businesses run, if a person just shows up at the dentist whenever, and how one goes about something as simple as meeting a friend for lunch. Does the clock really hold no sway over the locals’ lives?
I would say it’s about time.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and their husbands, Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr.