In Norwegian folklore there is this phenomenon called the “Vardøger”. It is a spirit animal of sorts, that hangs around and looks after you. Different people have different animals and they are generally invisible. They walk ahead of you to make sure the coast is clear. A typical example would be that you’re in the kitchen making supper and you hear a key in the front door lock, the opening and closing of said door, shoes being scraped off, a coat slung over the stair railings and your better half sitting down in the living room.

Only there is no one there when you go to check.

Ten minutes later you hear the key in the door and your better half walks in, slings their coat over the banisters and takes a seat in the living room. In real life this time.

This is a typical “vardøger” story and many tell it. My version of these strange occurrences is a little different: sometimes I’ll be in a crowd or sitting at a café and I’ll see an old friend, someone I haven’t seen for years. But when I look closer, it’s not Peter after all. Almost invariably, a few minutes later, the real Peter will show up.

Now, I am not a superstitious, religious or in-any-way spiritual person so I find it hard to explain these things when the happen. All I know is that they do happen.

I experienced he oddest example of this about twenty years ago in Grünerløkka, Oslo. I was pretty broke, working part-time as a waiter and living in a rented room. One morning I woke up and walked out into the sunny, summer morning. I had to be at work and feeling in my pocket, I came across some banknotes. I must have been on my best behaviour on the shift the evening before and done well on tips. I usually did not end up with so much loose cash, especially after visiting the bars after work.

But here I was, flush with money and I decided for once to take a taxi, something I hadn’t been able to afford for years. “What kind of taxi would I take, if I could choose?” I thought. I remembered seeing a single green and white Citröen DS taxi intermittently of the streets. Not hard to spot as it had to be the only one of it’s kind, all the others in town were big Mercedes.

A minute later, the green and white taxi appeared from around a corner. It came closer and I stuck my arm out. To my surprise it stopped and picked me up.

A cassette was playing French accordion music and on the dashboard was a small, silver vase with a spray of plastic flowers. The seats where slick, white and green Naugahyde.

I leaned over the banquette seat and talked to the driver. Was he French? No, he just liked the culture. I tried to dig some more but he was not the most talkative. Although when I asked about the gilt ashtray in front he got very lively. He hated smokers and wouldn’t even share the same taxi rank if other drivers were smoking.

He delivered me to my workplace and I paid him with the cash from my pocket.

That was the last time I saw that car, but I heard from others that it did still exist and the driver could be visited at his workshop, just as long as you didn’t smoke in his presence.