On our way to Tiger records we passed a 7-11 with a newspaper stand outside. On the front cover of Dagbladet the headline read “BRITTANY MURPHY DØD.” D.O.D, I said to my girlfriend. She laughed. We considered buying sweets just in case we became hungry later, but decided against it. My girlfriend had the address of Tiger records written down and we looked at the map trying to find it. We found a road that had a similar name to it but we couldn’t find the exact street name. We decided that it might be a small street, too small to be able to print its name on the map, so we would walk in the direction of the street with a similar name and it might be in that area. I marked the route we would have to take on the map with a pen. We walked about a quarter of the way there when we reached a long main road and my girlfriend pointed to a street sign with the name we were looking for. We realised that this was the right street and it was no where near the other street with a similar name. It took us another ten minutes of walking up and down the street before we found the shop. In the shop we spent a long time looking through the records and absorbing heat. I found several releases from an ex-housemates record label. I found the second Brainworms album and showed the cover to my girlfriend. It looks like a pop-punk album, she said. It looks disgusting, I said. I bought the record. At the counter there were various CDs by local bands. One was a CD packaged in an inch thick wooden log with paper stapled to it. I asked the guy serving me what it was. He told me that there was a local musician that does a Christmas album every year, each year using a different format. One year he used a disquette, he said. A biscuit? I said. No, a disquette. Like, a floppy disquette? And he made a square with his thumb and fingers. Oh, I said. We both laughed. You should tell him maybe next year he should use a biscuit, I said. Yah maybe, he said.

The route from Tiger to the Munch Museum was simple to navigate, but we took out the map and number of times, consulting it at the end of streets and a roundabout. It felt like we were walking into a more suburban part of the city as we passed children skating on an open ice rink the size of a netball court. We walked next to the fence of the botanical gardens all the way to the farthest side. There were three different buildings that all looked closed. We looked at the map to decide which one was the Munch Museum. We walked towards the doors of the Munch Museum. There were banners outside advertising forthcoming exhibitions. We looked through the glass of the doors to the Munch Museum. The lights were not on and no one was inside. I tried the door handle but it would not open. The Munch Museum was closed. We turned around and walked through the main entrance of the botanical gardens. The Sunday before Christmas and the entire place was covered in snow, as should be expected. We walked past several plants that had markers saying what they were. This was the only way you could have been able to tell what was planted there. Walking down the path that cut the gardens in half, my shoes skidded on the ice. I slipped forward but maintained my balance and crouched down into a squatting position. My girlfriend laughed at me. Earlier, when it had started snowing, we looked at the snowflakes against our clothes – perfect crystallized asterisks. We had never seen anything like it.

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