I'll confess something: I expected Stavanger to be just another Norwegian port, beautiful in that predictable Scandinavian way. Instead, stepping off the gangway onto cobblestones practically at the ship's shadow, I found myself in a city that's somehow both 900 years old and utterly contemporary. Norway's fourth-largest city – home to about 146,000 souls – wears its history like a well-loved wool sweater: comfortable, authentic, and still keeping out the North Sea wind.

The story starts in 1125, when they consecrated Stavanger Cathedral. That makes this one of Norway's oldest cities, and you can still feel that medieval backbone in the narrow lanes and the way the harbor curves protectively around Vågen. For centuries, Stavanger was a fishing town, respectable but unremarkable, the kind of place where generations worked the same boats their grandfathers had worked.

Then 1969 happened. They found oil in the North Sea, and Stavanger transformed almost overnight from a mid-sized fishing town into what Norwegians now call the "Oil Capital of Norway." The change could have destroyed the old town – I've seen it happen elsewhere, where money bulldozes history – but somehow Stavanger kept its soul. Walking through Gamle Stavanger, you understand why: 173 perfectly preserved white wooden houses from the 18th and 19th centuries, their walls climbing with roses in summer, their doorsteps claimed by contented cats. The winding cobblestoned streets lead past local craft shops where artisans still work with their hands, and Nordic art galleries that showcase everything from traditional landscapes to avant-garde installations.

I spent my morning wandering those cobblestones, getting deliberately lost, finding my way by the smell of fresh bread from a bakery I never did locate. Then I stumbled onto Øvre Holmegate – a street that exploded in color like someone knocked over a paint cart. Every building wears a different bold hue: electric blue beside sunshine yellow beside deep rose. It's whimsical, almost defiant, as if the street itself is reminding you that oil money doesn't have to mean corporate gray.

The Norwegian Petroleum Museum sits near the cruise terminal – close enough that I walked there in ten minutes, though the wind off Vågen made me grateful for my jacket. I'll be honest: I went in mainly to kill time before my fjord cruise. But the exhibits are surprisingly captivating, interactive displays that let you experience what it's like working on an offshore oil platform. You start to understand not just the engineering brilliance, but the sheer courage it takes to extract oil from beneath a sea that doesn't want to give up its secrets. The museum doesn't shy away from the environmental questions either, which I respected.

But the real magic – the reason I'd return to Stavanger in a heartbeat – was the three-hour fjord cruise to Lysefjord. The boat departed right from the harbor, and as we motored out, our captain pointed out that Vågen Harbor holds Norway's largest collection of wooden buildings, their painted facades reflecting in the still water like an Impressionist painting come to life.

Then the fjord began to reveal itself. Sheer granite walls rose on either side, so tall they create their own weather systems. We nosed into Vagabonds' Cave, where outlaws once hid from the king's men, the boat engine echoing off stone that's stood here since before humans had words. Waterfalls tumbled hundreds of meters down faces that seemed vertical enough to defy physics. And then, as we rounded a bend, there it was: Preikestolen. Pulpit Rock.

At 604 meters – 1,982 feet if you're counting in American – Preikestolen hangs above Lysefjord like God's own diving board. The captain cut the engines and we drifted in silence, necks craned back. The cliff face is so sheer it looks impossible, like something from a fantasy film. And I suppose it is a film star now – Tom Cruise dangled from it in Mission Impossible: Fallout, doing whatever terrifying thing Tom Cruise does when he's not satisfied with mere mortality.

More than 300,000 people hike to the top of Pulpit Rock every year. It's a moderate trek – four kilometers each way with about 350 meters of elevation gain – but here's the calculus on a cruise port day: you simply don't have time. The hike alone takes four to five hours, and that's before you factor in transportation to the trailhead. But from the boat, drifting below in perfect silence except for the waterfall roaring beside us? I actually whispered to my wife, "No way this is real." The view from below might be better anyway – you get the full drama of the cliff without the terror of peering over the edge.

We spotted mountain goats on ledges that looked too narrow for a housecat, let alone a full-grown ungulate. The captain said they're born there, live there, die there, and never seem to fall. I envied their confidence even as I gripped the boat rail a little tighter.