I found an for rent add for a pitoresque little yard house in the old part of town, I'm thinking I have to apply. The add didn't make clear if they just wanted short stay visitors or was open to longer renters, though. But it's not like there's any harm in asking.
It's overpriced, of course, but so is everything in this town.
In a pintoresque little yard house there lived a Mörelander. Not a nasty, dirty, Smålander cottage, filled with
the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy Norwegian house with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a Mörelander house, and that means comfort.
It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny
yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - the Mörelander was fond of hats and coats.
The tunnel wound on and on,
going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the
people for many miles round called it - and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another, because the Morelander loved little round doors.
No going upstairs for the Mörelander:
bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole
rooms devoted to clothes... again, he LOVED hats and coats), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going
in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows
looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river. The Morelander loved windows, and he loved the left side of his house for this. He didnt love the right side because of the lack of windows and because of its uncommon Non-Euclidian geometry.
This Mörelander was a very well-to-do lutefisk salesman and his name was Scriver.