“My name is Karoline Conradi Øksnevad,” she said, the words devoid of much inflection. But then, with greater emphasis: “You don’t know me. I am both no one and everyone.”
Now, nearly two decades later, I was in the same place with Jonathan’s daughter, who had just turned twenty, and who was with me not on a journey but a pilgrimage.
They wear the slightly bemused expressions of those who have ordered their filet well-done, only to find it served up tartare –but they’re too proud to return the meat to the kitchen.