It happened again. After months of avoiding the chilly shadows, I’ve plunged right back into the abyss of Nordic Noir. This time, it’s The Åre Murders, and I’m hooked—again. Every six months or so, I find myself back in the icy depths of Scandinavia, vicariously solving brutal murders while half-freezing to death in my mind. You’d think I’d have learned by now: I hate the cold. The mere thought of being in snow gives me hives, and yet… here I am, dreaming of trekking through it like a brooding detective on the verge of cracking a case.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? What is it about Nordic Noir that pulls me in? It’s like the gritty darkness, the moody landscapes, and the slow burn of psychological unraveling are calling my name. Do I enjoy the metaphorical frostbite that much? Apparently, yes. With every bleak plotline and every snow-covered corpse, I start fantasizing about visiting these northern lands where daylight is a fleeting rumor. I could be a detective, mired in darkness, solving crimes with nothing but a flashlight, a heavy wool coat, and a thousand-yard stare. Forget the beach—I want to investigate grisly murders in a land where the sun barely makes an appearance.

Of course, this is a ridiculous fantasy. The reality is, I’d step into the snow, get one gust of freezing wind in my face, and immediately demand a plane ticket home. I’m a New Yorker who thrives on coffee and complaining about humidity. I’m not built for perpetual winter. And yet, as I binge this latest Nordic Noir, my brain starts telling me otherwise. I could totally do this, it whispers. I could totally thrive in darkness, isolated in a cabin, with nothing but my sharp intellect and a thermos of tea. Until, of course, I remember that I can’t stand cold weather for more than five minutes without wishing I was wrapped in a fleece blanket, binge-watching Colin from Accounts.

I know this will pass. Six months from now, I’ll be knee-deep in some other obsession—maybe back to comedy, maybe a true crime podcast—but for now, I’m in that familiar space: huddled under a blanket, watching pale detectives with excellent cheekbones brood in the snow. The allure of Nordic Noir never fails. It’s like a dark, icy siren that pulls me in every time. Maybe one day, I’ll actually make it up there. But until then, I’ll just keep fantasizing about solving murder cases while knowing full well I wouldn’t last a week in a Nordic winter.