The city of Haugesund is, except for a short strip next to the strategically important sound Smedasundet, not an exceptionally beautiful town, according to a colleague of mine that is. I suspect it depends upon which filter of expectation one navigates by, and so, that particular Saturday, I decided to apply an open-minded filter. I took a stroll over a bridge without name to the small island Hasseløya, og Hazel Island, but found no Hazelnuts. Perhaps it had dematerialized in the strong gale which blew across. Rather I avoided colliding with a newspaper, which, given my quick reactions, hit a local bush instead, as you may observe in one of the images below. I wouldn’t want my face covered in trash. I looked around, proud as a peacock, but no one was there to witness my eminent dodge, which may have reminded an attentive by-passer of that famous Matrix-scene. I was even dressed in black and had cool sunglasses on. I may, if not mistaken, even have had a cool expression on my face, but it is hard to tell, as I cannot see myself from the outside, even though I also play the honourable dual role as the narrator of this particular story. What I could see though, was how the neighborhood reminded me of a nuclear no-go-zone. Perhaps I had missed a warning-sign on the way? The front-door lying in the middle of the street certainly felt alarming enough. On the other side, it was a place to breathe, as the wind was supplying my lungs with high-pressured oxygen. I was enjoying this substitute dimension for an indeterminable time lapse, when a black car pulled over and three males, all at once, asked me for driving directions to the place “where the young people go”. As I showed the Cerberus off, I remembered that there was still time to cross the bridge.