My friend Lars lives far, far North, further North than I’ve ever been, and when he walks across his garden to check on his potatoes the earth crushes beneath his feet, like scorch marks, he writes. I remember frost, but it’s not here yet. We just have rain. For years I assumed Lars would move South again, back to the rain and the wind, but I think he’s happy where he is. “Ting ser annleis ut sett herifrÂ”, he writes, “things look different from here.” One day I’ll visit him, and perhaps I’ll see things differently, too.