Camilla fixed her hair with her hand, trying to tame the one stubborn lock that stuck out above her left ear. That was the price she had to pay for going from Marie Fredriksson– the Roxette singer – to 1950s Tove Jansson. Now she was stuck at 1980s Isabella Rossellini, and while Camilla had nothing against her, and even knew that in a way Rossellini was the perfect role model for her, she had been born in Rome, not the north of Italy like Camilla.

She stood by the facial creams and rearranged the cartons and bottles while humming ABBA. “Mamma mia,” she sang, “here I go again.”

One day I will go, she thought. I will leave Milan and move even farther north. She hadn’t made up her mind yet whether she’d move to Sweden or Finland, but one of those countries.

It was hard to tell why she was so fascinated by a place she’d never been to. She felt like she had, but she hadn’t – unless you counted reading all the Moomin books, the Wallanders, and Stieg Larsson’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. She’d watched Bergman movies, she knew all the lyrics to Chess by heart, and she had even watched most – but not all – of the Kaurismäki films.

She knew that as soon as she got up there, she’d be right at home.

Oh, those endless summer days, the lakes, the clean air, the forests, the symphony of wildlife in the trees, the style, the snow as white as… snow.

Camilla chuckled. “Snow as white as snow.”

She was no poet.

But who knows – maybe she’d become one if she ever moved to Scandinavia.

The Winter Olympics had brought the world to her home, not that Camilla could tell, working at La Rinascente’s Annex. But after work, when she walked to the subway, it was exciting to see all the people wearing their nations’ colors.

Camilla was brought back to reality by a polite cough. She turned her head slightly and saw a short man in a large winter jacket and a baseball cap smiling in front of her.

He was gesticulating as he spoke English in a staccato style, but Camilla had no idea how long he had been standing there talking. She knew exactly what he was saying – she did speak English – even without all that miming.

“Yes, we do have shaving cream,” she said. “La, la,” she added, and quickly corrected herself, “here, sir.”

“Oh, great, I’ll take it,” the man said.

“It’s very great,” Camilla said. “You take little, give me hand.”

Camilla squirted some cream onto the man’s hand and rubbed it in.

“Great, I’ll take it,” he said.

“Very good. It was made by a man, for men. Just a little, um, water on face first. Where you from?”

“Um, Finland,” the man said, “and Sweden.”

Camilla was puzzled. How could he be from two countries? On the other hand—such great countries. The best countries! Camilla loved the Olympics.

“I always like to go to northern Europe,” she said. “I like Sweden, Finland. Hanoi Rocks!”

“Well, do it in the summer,” the man said, smiling. “The winters are very dark.”

Camilla knew all about the dark winters from the Beck movies. She said nothing; she just smiled.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

“I mean, really. Like, really dark. Complete darkness,” the man said, and for some reason he was still grinning. “It can get cold, too!”

The grin grew wider.

“It’s good. I hate Milan summer. Is too hot!”

“Well, in that case,” the man said. “Just saying. You won’t see the sun for months.”

Camilla walked him to the cash register, where her colleague scanned the barcode and pointed at the card reader.

“Thank you,” the man said. “Good luck with Scandinavia.”

“Grazie mille,” Camilla said.

Now she was definitely going to the north. What did that little man know that Tove Jansson didn’t? She fixed that stubborn lock of hair and pushed it down again.

A Pippi Longstocking quote popped into her head.

“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll always come out on top,” she muttered. “You got that right, Pippilotta Virtualia Rolgardinia Succiamenta Efrasilla figlia del Capitano Efraim Calzelunghe.”

Camilla smiled.

She’d be right at home in the north. One day.