Category: Sweden

Day 29: Depart Bodo for Stockholm, Sweden (2 miles, 633 total miles)

5 July 2024: Friday

My train wasn’t scheduled to depart until 12:27 pm. But I set my alarm for 5 am to ensure I got everything done. I worked on the blog and transferred photos. I cleaned up apartment, washed dishes, bagged trash, showered, and packed Heidi tightly, before riding the bike to the train station two hours before departure. Arriving early with plenty of time to spare is how I keep my stress levels low. I sat for about ten minutes in a nearly vacant lobby. Three backpackers were sleeping beside three mounds of luggage. I figure their colleagues were out exploring the city. A young cyclist couple were reading a travel book and discussing plans in some language I didn’t recognize. They had taken up much of the lobby with their two bicycles blocking at least eight or ten seats. 

With two hours to spare, I rode half a mile to a Kiwi and bought a set of wireless airpods. I broke my earphones yesterday when I hopped off Heidi quickly on the shore of the Norwegian Sea. Forgetting they were still connected to my phone and my ears, I inadvertently snapped the volume button. A few weeks ago, I lost one airpod of a pair just a day after I bought them. 

I figure that since this train trip will last nearly two days, I can use some music and streaming distractions. Maybe they will even help me sleep.

So I invested another $50 for a new set while wondering how long this pair will last before I destroy or lose them.  

At least nowadays, every gas station and convenience store carry a whole host of electronic accessories for phones. 

What you don’t find readily available in Scandinavia are baggies or soft bread. I think they prefer hard bread. Also none of the kitchenettes I have rented has had a lid for the frying pans. 

Back at the Bodo Train Station, I met Dimitro, a 20-something Ukrainian soldier who suffered an injury to his leg in the war against the Russians a year ago. He had ridden a bike five days around Bodo. During that time, he has been in a rehab program at Trondheim, which was part of Norwegian military program. I didn’t ask for specifics, but he did say that he still needed some time for his leg to heal before he could return to Ukraine. 

The train ride was just as beautiful on this trip as the previous one. At one stop, I saw a cairn, or mound of stones, marking the Arctic Circle. 

We changed trains at Trondheim around 11 pm. It was chilly, around 50 degrees with a brisk little wind. So, I sought shelter in a glass enclosure, presently for this reason, I suspect, on the platform. 

Day 30: Stockholm, Sweden (0 miles)

6 July 2024: Saturday

After my first 650-mile bicycle trip in 2020, my younger brother Darren told me I should get a better bike. If I was going to bikepack crosscountry, he recommended I get the best bike possible. Lightest one made with narrow road tires. With every subsequent trip, he was also worried about my safety. “There are a bunch of idiots (drivers) out there… I see them everyday,” he told me when I rode from Indiana to Florida. 

That’s what Darren did. He worried about those he loved, helped them any way he could, and often did without himself. A Sri Lankan mechanic told Darren’s family and me that during the worst days of COVID he and his entire family were sick with the virus. They couldn’t get out to even go to grocery shopping. Darren, who fell into the high risk category because of certain health issues, delivered groceries to the mechanic and his family, saying that those kids had to eat. 

That was Darren.

Naturally, I was worried about Darren’s health and wellbeing, and his safety while driving. He spent too many hours on the road. Late hours and long hours. But Darren was a good driver. Had driven professionally most of his adult life. 

I never imagined that a summer construction bottleneck on Interstate 69 and a faulty airbag would steal him from us. 

“I will work till the day I die,” he told me more than once over the past few years, but road construction accident is not what he had in mind, I am sure. 

Darren and I never spoke about funerals, but we both hated them. With the best intentions of raising courteous, God-fearing young Hoosiers, our mom dragged us to a host of viewings and funerals, at times against our will. 

This is just what good, conscientious Christians (I use the term loosely here) did. You paid your respects to those who have passed on. And you do it for the loved ones left behind. 

Mom was fascinated with death and frightened of it all at once. She just couldn’t look away when it brushed up against her. 

And I must admit that I too became infatuated with all things related to the hereafter. Still am in some ways, I suspect. In Vallonia elementary school, when Mr. Zabel instructed our 5th grade class to construct a building out of egg cartons, shoeboxes, and cardboard to insert into the tiny model town we were assembling, I built a funeral home. On the side of it, I posted promotions on signage that read: People are dying to get here and Sale: 2 for the price of 1. 

Darren and I also had our share of childhood tragedies, as did almost all of Brownstown school kids. When the three Skaggs brothers were killed, I was devastated. Darren’s best friend died out on Sand Lane while crawling through a sand tunnel. 

I teetered on the razor’s edge of my fascination with death, wanting my distance and protection from the grim reaper while exploring the afterlife through fiction writing, watching Sammy Terry movies, and a few hours work at a funeral home, when I would open the door for stricken loved ones. 

When I reached high school, I largely stopped attending funerals. Or, perhaps more accurately, I selected which services I would attend: Precious few. The year I graduated, I refused to attend my grandfather’s funeral. I had paid my respects to him in many ways while he was alive. And I could comfort the family in other ways. I didn’t need to attend official services for that.  

Due to a spate of farm robberies during funerals in Jackson County in 1978, I sat at that same kitchen window where men in the family had been sitting for generations on the day Guy Coleman was buried. With a shotgun in the corner, I guarded the farm. The vigil was justified. Despite the most recent farm robberies, a year or so earlier, a thief stole my grandfather’s newly-purchased ton truck right out of the barn lot while we were sleeping. He’d paid cash for it and had only carried liability insurance, so the loss was calamatous. 

Fortunately for me, no thieves showed up on the day of Guy’s funeral, and I was never put to the test. At 18 years old, I was not mature enough to make good life and death decisions with a shotgun. 

When my son died, we had a little memorial at the Kurtz cemetery in the freezing rain. We didn’t want a viewing or funeral services. In grad school at Indiana University, I helped a professor teach a course called “The Living and the Dead.” The class explored various rituals and practices that survivors performed for loved ones who passed on throughout history. For example, ever wonder why so many old cemeteries surrounded churches? In Europe and the US the “righteous” were buried in hallowed ground around the church to ensure entry into heaven. Certain categories of sinners could not be interred within the church property, and therefore could not be assured a spot in heaven. In various Asian cultures, families venerate relatives by arranging the departed’s photos, food, and flowers to a shrine. In Egypt, I researched the destitute farmers who migrated to Cairo decades ago and took up permanent residences, established businesses, and raised families in graveyards. 

Despite the curious fascination with death, Darren and I tried our best to avoid viewings, funerals, and services. Just after he passed in April of this year, I learned that just like me, he told his family that he did not want a showing or funeral services. 

When his wife and kids decided they would host a tiny private viewing for a dozen or so loved ones, I immediately opted out. Instead I took the youngest grandkids to Dave and Busters. The last thing I wanted was to visit the funeral home. I suspect Darren didn’t much want to be there either. 

Again on this 18-hour journey from Boda to Oslo, I managed to squeeze out three hours of sleep. I finished reading book one of Wayward Pines. It was good, but not great. 

It didn’t take me long to drop an earbud in between the two seats in front of me. I had to wake the man in front of me up and go around and finagle the earbud out while my seating companion used his phone’s flashlight.   

For the last three hours of the trip, two women past retirement age talked and talked and talked in some Nordic tongue. What is there to talk about for so long?

We arrived at Oslo Station on time a little after 6am. I had given myself about 6 hours just in case the earlier trains were delayed. I knew I had time to break Heidi down and put her in the bike bag.

Immediately, off the train, I bought two chocolate croissants and a coffee, then found myself the most unassuming patch of concrete under an escalator to sit and enjoy my breakfast.

The bathroom was way around the other side of the station and cost $2 per visit. Outside, I found an even more secluded corner where I dismantled Heidi, wrapped her in bike bag, and sat on the floor for the next couple hours, booking a hotel in Stockholm and ferry from Stockholm to Helsinki, Finland with a cabin. I checked out potential routes, distances, inclines, and accommodations from Helsinki to Turku, Finland.

I was nodding off, so I got up, lugged Heidi through the station to get lunch at a convenience store: A sausage and two of the thickest, chewiest chocolate chip cookies I have ever eaten. Like biting into a semi-baked slice of cookie dough. Heavenly. 

I donated a total of $6 to the Oslo Central Station lavatory system, one of the few things I dislike about Scandinavia. You need surgery; that is free. But you got to pee, you must dish two bucks. 

The train running 200 miles from Oslo, Norway to Gothenburg, Sweden is really a commuter trainer, designed for short trips. There are no assigned seats. There are grab straps dangling from the ceiling for the seat overflow. On my car, there were two talking vending machines. One for good coffee and the other for snacks. 

For a Saturday, the noon train busy, packed with tourists, a few on bicycles like me, and families with strollers, families with older kids, couples, teens, and others. Most came prepared with food in their bags. They shared bread and snacks and drinks. 

Unfortunately, trains in most parts of the US don’t operate this way. The commuter from Point of Rocks, Maryland, where we used to live, to Washington, DC, for instance, didn’t operate at all on weekends. And through the week, the schedule catered only to workers. So trains to DC in the morning and from DC in the afternoon. 

Imagine a family-friendly, affordable train that ran every hour to and from Seymour, Indiana to Louisville, Kentucky, or to Nashville, Tennessee daily. To Indy and Chicago and Cincinnati. Now, imagine that it stopped at every significant city or big town down along the way. So, you could hop on a train in Seymour at noon, and be in Nashville, Tennessee at 6pm for $90 per adult. No driving, no traffic, no gasoline, no parking fees, or hassles. You could catch a show, spend the night, and come home for another $90. For $300 round trip, you could take the whole family to Kings Island or Pigeon Forge. For $500 you could all go to the St. Louis Zoo and Six Flags. And so on.

Scandinavian trains have good charging outlets at every seat. Even in US airports, electrical outlets at your seat are hit and miss. 

On this Saturday, a little blond haired girl, probably in the first grade, sits with her mom and brother in the seats in front of me. They play cards and sing some songs in a Scandinavian language. 

As soon as we cross over into Sweden, the internet on my phone stops working. I moved to another seat and switch the SIM card Comviq, my Swedish SIM card. But it registers no data. My 30-day plan ran out. The WiFi on the train is not working. 

While mother sleeps, little girl plays by herself, sings silently to herself, making circles and figures in the air with her hands.

Most of the feeling is coming back to my fingers in my right and, and the rash on both hands is better since I haven’t been on the bike more than five hours in past week. 

I started and stopped about four novels. None of them were gripping. I start reading Wool, first book in the Silo series. My daughter and I watched Season One and loved it. So far the book is good.

The train barrels through several miles in Sweden at a speed that I haven’t seen since the Amtrak trip back from Arizona in January.

When I reach Gothenburg, I lug Heidi and the other bags into the train station. At the second convenience story, I buy a data top up plan. My phone works again. 

For this last leg of the trip, I bought a first class ticket. It wasn’t much more. Waiting outside Car One, an American couple about my age are the closest to the door. They speak to an intelligent European woman in her 60s for a few minutes. Somehow, I assume this woman is a university professor or intellectual of some time. She is polite. Informative. But somehow I get the impression that she has entirely too much knowledge in her head than she can effectively communicate to others. 

After she leaves for a second class compartment, the man becomes impatient. We are scheduled to depart in 10 minutes and the doors are not yet unlocked. The man walks up to the compartment window and peers through, not out of curiosity, it would appear, but to let the train officials know that he and his wife are out here on the platform, they are first class passengers, and it is time to open the doors. He returns to his spot beside his wife. After a minute, he tries again. Still it does not speed up the process.

When the cabin official gave the green light, the man presses the button, the air cylinder releases pressure, and the door swings out and to the side. He and his wife wasted no time in stepping on board and shoving their suitcase into the bottom rack. 

I am miffed at this American couple. But the truth is my bike wouldn’t fit into this tiny space anyway. Amtrak has an entire car for oversized baggage. I put my bike there. In Denmark, there is a special car where you can park your bike. In most Norway passenger trains, the system is even better. There is a tiny compartment in the dining car where you can hang your bike on a hook. Train officials lock the room, so everything is safe. But Sweden is another matter.

I ask the cabin official—a short, thin man in his late 20s, short red hair and trim mustache, “Can you help me with my bike?”

He suddenly has a grim look. “It is too big. It won’t fit.”

“I took it apart… It is 140 centimeters.” It is. I measured it twice. 

“Bring it,” he says and leads the way, while pulling up some specifications on his phone. “It can only be 80 cm x 40cm…” 

“On the website it says 140 cm,” I remind him.

He checks another page, maybe the public page. “140 cm x 85 cm…” he confirms.

About four cars down he leads me into the dining compartment and consults a strong, stern lady in her early 50s. She does not seem happy to see me. Staring at the bike, she looks up to appraise me, and says, “It’s too big”

“I am sorry for the hassle, but it is 140 cm. I measured it.”

The man leaves. He has important First Class passengers to attend to.

The problem is that the “information on the website is too big. We don’t have the room.”

She opens the doors and examines the baggage racks on the adjoining car. They were filled with large and small bags.

 “I can fit it up there,” I say, referring to the top shelve that reaches about to my shoulder. “If we can move those [other bags] around.”

“Are you sure it is 140 cm?” she asks.

“Yes, I am.”

She addresses the entire carful of passengers when she tells them, “Move all of these smaller bags and put them in the overhead bins.” Some people come and move the bags. Most ignore her.

“Whose is this yellow one?” she asks. And she continues until all of the smaller ones have been removed. 

After she’d left, I wrestled with Heidi and put her on the rack. She didn’t quite fit. 

A couple facing me in the front seat were laughing and looking at me. 

A young woman passenger helps me. Then she goes to her seat. I pull Heidi out, remove my helmet, turn her around. That doesn’t work. I turn her back, then find a way to fit her inside. Then I reinstall the helmet, zip her up, and head to my seat. The train is already moving.

“Thank you again,” I told the woman managing the cafeteria car. 

“Did you get it in?” she asks.

“I did.” 

Back at my seat, I finally can rest. In this car, I have a meal coming and there is free water and coffee and fruit. I grab an apple and the red headed man brings me a tray of food. By now, he is the perfect host. His sternness regarding Heidi’s size has been replaced with first class politeness.  

From behind me, I am privy to a conversation that a second man hailing from Alabama has with an American woman. They are both of retirement age. He sounds a little like, Dr Phil. “I’m a 20th century relic,” he tells her. He is showing her photos from his phone of “my oldest granddaughter, just graduated from high school. She is eighteen… Then her brother is 15… And then the youngest is 12. There’s a pretty good gap between them.” I don’t follow his logic. “My children like to relate themselves with what I did in my life…” So, he begins telling her how exciting he is. 

It is easy to imagine the man is a retired judge or a business owner of some importance in his circles. He is a large fish in his small Alabama pound, always quick with the judgement and tightfisted with the tact and empath. “Ignorant people…” he says. “In my opinion, it started with Watergate… Journalists became folk heroes… there’s not a single journalist I respect for because they” just tell lies.

I remind myself to observe human behavior without judgement. If I am going to become that better person whom I am always talking about, then I need to practice a little more tolerance myself. 

When I fall captive to these boisterous conversations, I must remember my experience many years ago when flying from Amman, Jordan to Baghdad, Iraq, in a tiny CPA-contracted aircraft run by a South African company, if I am not mistaken. It was operated out of Marka Airport, a small civilian airport. Only later when commercial airlines began traveling into Baghdad did flights operate out of the much larger Queen Alia International Airport. 

While returning from Jordan around 2003 or 2004, I was the unfortunate prisoner to a tortuous three- or four-hour conversation between two young American women that began while waiting in line. They were unintentionally loud, speaking nonstop about casual topics, more appropriate for sorority sisters than professional humanitarian or development workers. They shared gossipy tidbits about different CPA workers. 

This did not really surprise me. The Bush Administration had recruited a number of political debutants for CPA work, looking to add a stint in Iraq, no matter how brief, to their CVs. 

A couple years later, I was working for IREX in DC, and my work brought me into contact with an expert in Conflict Resolution and Peace from a well known think tank in DC. I was impressed by some of her Peace-building work that I read about on their website. We arranged a lunch and as soon as I saw her, I knew who she was. She was one of the flippant young women from that plane ride from Amman to Baghdad. Throughout the sushi meal and conversation, I struggled to reconcile that chatty sorority girl with this young professional sitting in front of me. She was articulate, modest, and intellectual. Gone were the garrulous conversations and immature comments, and in their place were thoughtful and logical analyses and insights. 

I came to realize that her personal conversations, flippant and crude as they may be, were her own. Not for public consumption or scrutiny. Certainly, nothing I heard on that day was anywhere as barbaric as some of my own comments when with trusted colleagues, particularly during my drinking years.

This young woman had done nothing wrong. And I shouldn’t judge her from personal conversations. I had been overly judgmental based on one seemingly endless conversation with another trusted counterpart. And whereas I kept my private conversations more isolated to match my introversion, she was an extrovert who didn’t mind others overhearing her conversations.

When we arrived at the Stockholm Train Station, I removed Heidi and reassembled her right on the platform. Pushing her into the station was much easier than carrying her in that stupid bag. 

I then rode three blocks to the Comfort Hotel Express.

From Amanda’s apartment in Bodø to the Comfort Hotel Express in Stockholm, the four-train journey took 34 hours. I had slept about 3 of those, so when sleep came at around 10 pm, I didn’t fight it.

Comfort Hotel Express ($84/night)

Kungsbron 1, Stockholm, 111 22 Sweden

Day 5: Asljunga (27 miles, 164 total)

11 June 2024: Tuesday

My 40th wedding anniversary!  

The dilemma today is whether to wait till noon to start riding, and get there maybe at 4 or 5 pm when it is warmed and potentially miss the rain or to leave early when it is chillier and when the showers are forecast? So far, the weather forecasts have not been accurate. 

I hate riding in the afternoon. I also hate riding in the rain and the cold. Even sitting here in the kitchen of Johan’s AirBnb, I have the radiators on. My feet are cold. It is 48 outside. 

I was dreading the day. Forecasts were calling for rain all morning. I was tired of being cold. But somehow I packed up and was standing in the yard at 7:20 am. 

Amazingly, there was no wind. The sun was shining and no rain in sight. With refreshed legs, I bulled over the blacktop south, probably at times going 15-20 mph. I met a few hills, but they were manageable. Within an hour, I was nearly halfway. 

Only once did drizzle appear, permeating through my jacket for about 20 minutes and that was it. My whole upper body was wet, but I felt really good. I took a bike path that was nice, and then it turned into a dirt path, and eventually, I got back onto the main road. 

I got through 26 miles with no incident, but the last 3/4 mile was all hill. I rode some and pushed some. Finally I arrived around 10:40 am or so, making my average speed of just under 8 mph. 

Rakhi and Nimish, a couple from India who has lived the past 20 years in Sweden, just bought the Nature Shelter Hotel this year. They added an Indian cuisine to the menu. When I arrived, I met a German customer in the parking lot who seemed extremely interested in my ride. She and her partner were driving up to Stockholm with their dog. Patrick, the Swedish gardener, was painting the front doors black. He was very friendly. Helped me take my bike in a side entrance and park it in the hall. Rakhi was in the kitchen when I arrived. She told me, “I am the one who wrote you yesterday,” referring to my request to check in about noon.

“I got here early. Sorry,” I said. 

I told her, “Apke milkar se, mujhe bohot khushi hui,” which means, “I am happy to meet you.” This brought big smiles to the faces of her and the Nepali manager. 

They told me it would be a while before the room was ready, which was fine by me. I just wanted coffee to warm up. My shirt and coat were still soaked. Fortunately my legs and feet were dry. 

A Nepali couple operate the hotel; the wife cooks and serves and runs the desk while the husband runs the desk, serves, and attends to other hotel needs.

Nimish was sitting four steps down in the coffee lounge, on his lap top drinking a cup of tea. He was also very friendly. Told me his son had just graduated and would be attending business school in Copenhagen next term. Before that, he, his wife, and two sons would travel to San Francisco for two weeks. 

I ordered mutton Biriyani and a mango lassi and changed from my wet shirt into a dry one. Immediately, I felt much warmer. Imagine that!

A small Swedish woman in her 50s who walked almost as fast as I ride, breezed in and out of the restaurant. At one point, she told me that my room was ready. I am sure she was friendly too. As she flashed through the restaurant, I even think I saw a smile or two. 

The food was very good. I retired to the room with Heidi. For $55/night, you get a very plain room, to “twin” beds, which are much narrower than the twins in the US. More like soft cots. No fridge or microwave. No TV. Not that the last places had TVs that worked either. Comfortable enough, though. I dozed off and woke a little while later. Caught up on some work (downloaded photos, wrote, booked a room at Helsingborg for tomorrow.)

Around 4:30 pm, I went back to the restaurant and ordered curry. It was good as well. I paid for everything and asked if it was possible to get coffee before the 7 am start of breakfast. I explained that I usually get up around 4 am. The nice Nepali cook told me she would make coffee before she went to bed. 

Back at the room, I streamed the newest season of Fargo, and checked the weather. The forecast went from no rain at all to two hours of rain in the morning. I fell into a heavy sleep around 8 pm.  

Day 6: Helsingborg, Sweden (39 miles, 203 total miles)

12 June 2023: Wednesday

When can you really be yourself?

I wrote my bachelor’s thesis on language personalities, how and why your personality changes when you speak a second language. At the time, I was not aware of anything published on the topic, but I believe since then, there has been. But there was plenty written about situation personalities. 

When talking to our minister, we show one dimension of ourselves. To our children, another. Our spouse, yet another. Our bosses, strangers, auto mechanic, customer service representative to solve a problem over the phone, banker when applying for a loan, all different sides of our personality. 

But when would you say that you are genuinely, 100% yourself? Maybe all those different behaviors are pieces of ourselves, but we are always reacting to social situations, right?

On my bicycle, I am genuinely myself. I am free from all social encumbrances. I am exerting physical and mental effort to peddle up the hill, to fight the cold, ignore the rain, rest when I feel it is appropriate. I think about the distance to go, challenge myself, coerce myself, push on and on. When I reach a hill, I cheerlead. I keep my own spirits up. 

Perhaps for an introvert, this is a time to reset. I am not parenting. Not coaching or motivating staff. Not negotiating at work. Not being a problem solver at home. Or attempting to be a better spouse. 

Hannah, Christian’s wife, is going on a silent retreat, where she won’t talk or have access to electronics for 23 hours per day. During the remaining hour, she will have a one-on-one session with a retreat coach. 

That is a hard reset. 

On Heidi, I am myself. I curse out loud if my bike falls. I smile and wave to pedestrians. I admire livestock, wildlife, bodies of water, farmland, forests, bridges, cabins, cottages, and on and on. I enjoy the seclusion of a room. To read, write, or stream something. To be alone with my thoughts. More than the just nightly reset that we introverts do every night by retiring to our room. On this trip, I am fully into myself. In my own head, coaching, pushing, reflecting. I take off my supervisor and mentor hat, remove my grandparent vest, sit down my project management clipboard, and just return to the child I am. The teenager I feel I am most of the time before looking in the mirror. A hard reset. 

I skipped breakfast to beat the rain, handing in my key and rolling down the big hill at 6:50 am. The first few minutes of a ride always requires some adjustment. You adjust to the cold (51 degrees), make sure you have your lights on (I didn’t), helmet strapped (I didn’t), tired, and reunite with the pavement. You must become reacquainted with the atmosphere of the road. Checking the GPS. Watching for traffic. Making sure you are safe.

The first 15 miles or so went very smoothly. Much of it was down hill. Wind wasn’t bad. No rain. I stopped to catch my breath many times. Made a couple of good sized hills. Outside a village, I saw a horse with a weed stuck to his mane. She allowed me to get close enough to remove it. 

A couple villages further, I found an ICA. I locked Heidi and went inside. The place was lousy with old fogies like me. This is the time we shop, I guess. While the rest of the world is working. I looked for coffee, but there was none. None in any ICA that I have ever seen. I thought about sending the management of ICA an email recommending coffee. Imagine the market they are missing. 

Instead, I grabbed a Coke Zero and a couple of day old pastries that were on sale, and went to the checkout line. An old guy at least 75 eased his cart half full of mostly sweets (guy after my own heart) in front of me. I had two items, but he didn’t offer to let me go. We waited a good two minutes for the two clerks to settle some pricing crisis over cigarette lighters or something. One of the clerks started scanning his items. This was gonna take some time. I wanted to eat and get back on the road, but I told myself to be patient. 

I walked back about two steps to search the candy selection for an energy bar. There were none, so I snatched the next best thing: Marabou chocolate. Christian introduce me to it. He said this is the last Swedish chocolate company selling in the Russia. The others pulled out. Despite their politics, their products are phenomenal. 

I was gone less than 60 seconds, but when I returned, a lady had appeared in front of me. I began to feel like I was the protagonist in a Mr. Bean short. 

After the clerk had rung up all of the old guy’s sweets, he decided it was about the right time to get his credit card out. But that darn thing didn’t want to come out. He struggled for about a minute. Once it was out, he scanned it, and he punched numbers, but it wouldn’t work. He and the clerk had a lengthy, yet friendly, discussion in Swedish, while the rest of us waited in agony. He looked at the card reader, they talked, he punched buttons. Finally after a good two minutes, she took the card from him, and scanned it herself. 

Outside, I parked Heidi in a corner near the loading dock, and I sat on a huge stone and ate my two pastries. I took a sip of the Coke Zero and put it in my backpack. It was not a good substitute for coffee when you are eating day-old pastries. 

When I got Heidi out of the corner and started to climb on her, I noticed the front wheel was wobbly. Shit!

Indeed, it was very, very loose. I had never had that happen on any bike anywhere. I tightened it up, very grateful that I noticed it now. That could have spelled disaster had I gone much farther. I promised myself that I would check both the front and back wheels at least once a day in the future. 

Just a few miles farther, a shower drenched me. It was 54 degrees, but I was soaked and cold. I had two choices. Find a shelter and hope that the rain stopped in the near future. Or plug along. 

You probably know already my decision. 

It came down pretty hard for about an hour and 20 minutes. In fact, I hit the trifecta: 14 mph headwinds, strong showers, and cold (54 degrees). Then it eased up to a mist. With exactly 10 miles to go, it started raining even harder. 

Fortunately, I was at a roundabout where there was a McDonalds. It was only about 10:30 am, but I needed a break from the rain, and I needed to get warm. 

So, I parked Heidi under a huge umbrella over four outdoor tables, and I went inside and bought some cheeseburger with Swedish meatball sauce. I removed my backpack and coat, but there was no chance of getting dry. The warm interior temperature did help though. 

It was not easy to get back on Heidi and brave the cold, but I did. The way I figured it, I had 10 miles to go when I stopped off to get warm, and a half hour later, I still had 10 miles to go. It was not going to get any shorter on its own. The only way forward was peddle by peddle. 

At least the rain had stopped, for now, but looked like it could downpour any moment. The brutal wind pummeled me. 

I came across these fields of plants with branches. Unlike any I had seen before. I wanted to take a photo to learn what they were, but my camera was locked away, and my phone was under plastic protection. My curiosity only takes me so far when I am cold and wet. 

A police officer who stood at an intersection, clocking vehicle speeds. He pointed his radar gun directly at me, and I thought he was joking because the wind ensured that I didn’t break 8 mph. But he must have been looking at the car behind me.

When I reached him, I greeted him, and he gave me a half-hearted greeting and walked right past me to wave a car down a road to a nearby village, where I can only assume his colleague awaited with a ticket pad. 

“Do you know what that is in the field?” I asked him, pointing to the unusual plant.

He laughed, “I don’t really know. You can go ask the owners up there.” He pointed to the house across the field. 

I thanked him and peddled on. I later learned that these are rapeseed fields, I think, but the yellow flowers hadn’t bloomed yet. Used to make vegetable oil. 

The last couple of miles was nice again, just as I entered the city. I rode through a network for sophisticated blacktop bike paths that led me through apartment complex after apartment complex. I saw many bikers, some people on electric scooters, people walking dogs, and many mothers and fathers pushing strollers. 

The same network led me right down town onto the cobblestone street, where I found the Hotell Stadsparken ($65/night). 

It was about 12:30 pm.

Noor, a nice, young Arab woman with a hospitable smile, checked me in. I greeted her in Arabic, but I think this embarrassed her. Maybe in the work setting, she is trying to assimilate to the extent that she can with the hijab. 

I left the bike upstairs and realized I was out of clean clothes. The older woman named Shitza (sp?), in her 50s perhaps, helped me book another day, and arranged for my clothes to be picked up tomorrow. It was an effort because I had originally booked with Orbitz for $65/night, but the hotel’s price was $110/night. Plus, it wanted to give me a different room. So she told me she would match tomorrow’s rate, which was $71/night; I found it and showed it to her. She apologized many times for the delay. She was always smiling and friendly. She loved her job and was good at it. An Asian girl of maybe 22 years old, who worked primarily in the kitchen, came out and helped Shitza while Noor handled calls and other customers. They were all hospitable.

Eventually, she got the extra day for the $71/night and kept me in the same room.

I felt safe and warm, and the extra day of rest in this nice hotel was a reward after six days of riding and five straight days of getting rained on.

I walked over to Central Station, where you catch buses, trains, and ferries, and bought some snacks. Then I landed in a kebab restaurant near the hotel to eat a burger. Mistake. It was a thin frozen patty.

Back at the room, I streamed the rest of Fargo Season Five and kept myself awake up until nearly 9 pm.

Just the way I roll.

Day 3: Lagan, Sweden (38 miles, 106 total)

9 June 2024: Sunday

I woke up about 4 am and checked the weather. It was supposed to rain about 2 pm, so I booked a room at Lagan. Yesterday, I averaged over 7 mph, and today I hoped I could do at least 6 mph for 38 miles. There was only one hill and it was about halfway. But again, I was racing to beat the rain. 

So, I left a 7:10 am, hoping to get there by 1 pm or so before it started raining. 

I peddled and listened to music. My legs were a little stronger than the first two days. I was able to keep up a good speed and rest less frequently. 

During the summer of 1983, my brother Darren and I were driving a semi-truck across the country. His wife was pregnant with their first child, and he was trying to make some money before the baby came. I had just failed at a my first business venture, Darren had convinced me to buy a used truck try my luck at truck-driving. 

Just as we came within listening distance of a Denver radio station, “Harden my Heart” by Quarterflash began playing. The announcer said, “This is the number one song in Denver for eight weeks straight.”

Darren was driving, and I was awake in the passenger seat. We were both tired, and I was struggling to learn a new business and make ends meet. I was young, and foolish, and had committed myself to greater debt and responsibilities that I was ultimately willing to bear. But during that magical moment, I was enjoying the comfort of having Darren in the truck with me. Three years young, he was my teacher. He had the experience that I lacked. I always enjoyed spending time with him. And on this morning, I was brimming with hopeful anxiety. 

And since then, every time I hear that song, music memory brings me back to that moment. Sitting in the cab with him, enjoying the song.

So, as I peddled away this morning, Quarterflash came on the iPhone. “Harden My Heart.” I began to think about that special moment with him.

Then it began to rain. Quite hard, in fact. Over to the west, the clouds looked dark. I could either peddle faster and try to get beyond the downpour or I could find shelter. I had spotted a gas station a few blocks back. But since I was racing against the clock, I decided to peddle on, careful not to make any mistakes. On wet pavement, a mistake could be a disaster. 

But after 20 minutes, the rain stopped. My coat is not waterproof. So my arms got very wet. But the rest of me was relatively dry. I plugged on, but the 15 mph winds and 32 mph gusts kept pushing me back. At times, it was daunting. Once, while coasting down a tiny hill, I noticed the gust slowed me to an unnatural crawl.

At one point a doe crossed the road, and then a squirrel. I saw dozens of Eurasian magpies, these gorgeous black birds with white bellies and white streaks down their back.  

My first rest stop was in the town of Varnamo, about half way. Heidi was tired after climbing the biggest hill of the day, but I could have ridden on. I was making close to 10 mph. And my legs felt good. I checked the weather, but after maybe three or four minutes, I got back on Heidi and we bounced.

Just outside Varnamo, sits Lake Vidostern. I rode just west of it, first on the highway, but the wind was too strong; then on the bike and walking path, but the packed sand and gale were too challenging; so I finally steered onto a curvy lakeside road lined with trees that curbed the wind. 

I stopped and asked a woman who was walking if the road went straight through. The last thing I needed was a dead end that would cause me to backtrack. (I’ve done it before). 

“Yes, it goes on to Hanger,” she said. After I thanked her, she said, “Good luck with this wind.”

Even walking, she was dealing with it. 

But after a couple miles, I got back on the bike path. I am relatively certain that the path used to be a railroad track. In places the path is almost a levee built ten or twelve feet above the fields. And occasionally, I rode past an abandoned train stop or station, like at Hanger.

I stopped at the old train station and was going to sit on the bench when I noticed a small container-like store a block away. I rode over, and went inside. But no one was there. It was a self-serve store. I bought something and sat outside. But I started getting cold. It was 54 degrees, but I was wet and sweaty, after ten minutes, I decided to peddle on.

Just 12 miles to go! Should be easy, right? 

But this was the most difficult stretch of the day. I immediately came to an open field on either side of me. Gusts pounded me. I stopped halfway through the field to rest. Then kept going. 

Once into the tree-lined pathway, the squall subsided to nothing more than a 10-15 mph breeze. But my legs were shot. The strength and resilience that I enjoyed earlier in the day were gone. I had to peddle and coast. Peddle and coast. Stop astraddle the bike and then peddle on. Peddle hard when the wind let up, but then coast again. 

The sun came out and the temperatures rose to about 56 degrees or so. It felt good when the sun connected with my skin, my coat, my thin sweat pants. 

Because I was riding parallel to the lake, there were often bodies of water on both sides, ponds, inlets, and bogs. A huge, gray crane popped up and flew elegantly just a few feet over the path. His five-foot wingspan carried him on the heavy gusts with little effort. He stopped 100 yards ahead of me and slowly crept off the path and into the woods. 

When I arrived at the spot where he entered the woods, I found him meandering some 30 yards off the path. I watched him for about a minute and then rode on. 

Finally, I reached Lagan, averaging about 7 mph for the day. (Only 4 mph on the first day).

The Lagadalens Vardshus Hotel ($72/night) is really an inn. Outside were two bicycles and two motorcycles, one with a side car. I locked Heidi and walk through a deck with chairs and tables, where two men in their mid-60s were eating. I assumed that the motorcycles belonged to them. Crossing through the enclosed porch, I found a man reading. Down some stairs was the pub. A young man and young woman sat in the corner. Owners of the bicycles.

Anastasis, the inn keeper—a man in his 30s—was eating when I got there. It was around lunch time. I told him to go ahead and eat; I would wait.

“It’s OK. I am used to it.”

He told me I could pay after lunch. He was very friendly. He gave me a key and walked me outside and pointed to the two-story apartment building. “You can leave your bike in the lobby.” 

The rooms were very small and plain. There was a shared fridge, microwave, and hot water kettle. 

I stashed my gear in the room, and went back to the pub for a late lunch. Then to the ICA supermarket. I bought some snacks and headed back to the room. I napped and later got up and streamed something. But by 8 pm or so, I dozed off again. 

Day 4: Traryd (31 miles, total 137 miles)

10 June 2024: Monday

I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate riding in the rain, cold, and headwind. It sucks! Today, although the forecast predicted dry weather until 1 pm, a light shower kicked off my morning for the first hour. Then it dried up but I never got warm the rest of the day. 

A few days ago, I told Christian that I try not to think about Ukraine, Palestine, or Afghanistan. I have many Palestinian friends. Many more strangers treated Mirna, the kids, and me with kindness and hospitality. The suffering that the Palestinians, Afghans, and Ukrainians is beyond anything I can even imagine. To maintain my mental health, I disassociate myself from the suffering. For so many years in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, and Somalia, I worked in these countries with some of the kindest, most intelligent people I have ever met. I suffered when their family members were killed, kidnapped, or traumatized. 

In Iraq around 2004, Al-Mahdi’s army, a Shiite militant group, came around the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs asking about a colleague of mine. He was newly married, a Sunni, and had moved into a new house. They also came and asked his neighbors about him. The American advisors sent him and his wife to Erbil for his safety for 30 days. On the last day, he called me. 

“We are coming home,” he told me.

“No, I want you to stay two more weeks,” I told him. “We are in no hurry. We have to make sure it is safe for you to come home.”

“We are coming today,” he said. The fact that Arabs were not always welcome in Kurdistan, I suspect, played a factor in his decision.

A couple hours after we hung up, I got another call. Two men in a car outside his parents’ home shot and killed his mother and brother, and wounded a second brother in their car, as they were on their way to school. The mother was a teacher. 

There was no way to know for sure if this family paid the price for my colleague’s loyalty to the Americans or whether murders originated for some entirely different reason. But I cried for the first time in Iraq. It was a tragedy that I couldn’t shake. Nothing I was doing was making a difference. I was helping to provide workforce development training to unemployed Iraqis, we were helping thousands find jobs, we were providing some psychological counseling to former soldiers, but every time I turned around, things got worse. I was failing. People were suffering. Dying. 

I brought a lot of that trauma home with me to Maryland. Dwelt on it. Suffered it. Revisited it. All to no one’s benefit. 

Now, I have to turn it off. Isolate myself from it. And focus what is in front of me. Try to enjoy my time with my children and grandchildren.

At 3:30 am, I woke up. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. 

Yesterday, Anastasis, the innkeeper, told me I could get coffee at the gas station. The only one I found was the Q-Star, a block away. But it is an attendant-less gas station and didn’t have a store inside it. For the first time on my trip, I was glad that I brought this little plastic cup. I boiled water in the common hot water kettle and poured the water over these little, round coffee containers. They are for some type of machine, but I punched holes in it and left it in the hot water, like a tea bag, for several minutes. Not great, but satisfying.

Again, they were not calling for rain before 2 pm, but strong winds were supposed to begin in earnest at 10 am. So, packed up, loaded Heidi, and left the Inn.

Two or three times, I tried to find a coffee shop or a convenience store to get some hot coffee, but no luck. Along my route, where going through towns or villages, the convenience stores are few and far between. I wonder where Swedes get their junk food. The gas stations tend to be these tiny, attendant-less operations, two pumps and an awning. 

The rain soaked my upper body for the first hour. I couldn’t get warm the rest of the day. The wind was 14 mph with gusts of 30 mph. But there were breaks today. Stretched of bike path and road that broke the wind some. 

About two hours into the ride, the bike path turned into a loose sand and gravel. Both are my enemies. I took a blacktop road that wound up into the hills. It added significant inclines to my journey was well as three miles. But I rode the whole way. I didn’t have to push, which meant that my legs are slightly stronger. 

There are these hunting stands about eight or ten feet tall, erected in fields and forests. Much like tree stands for hunting deer, Swedish hunters sit up there and await opportunities to shoot moose. 

For the next hour, I saw maybe two or three cars. Some horses and cows. A few farmers outside. Two huge jackrabbits. Until finally, I came to this old, wooden bus stop shelter. I rested for 15 minutes. I tried to get warm, but it was not going to happen with my entire upper body soaked through.

No sooner did I get back on the desolate road, then it started to rain again. This time, my legs got wet. After 20 minutes, it stopped. But the wind made sure my fingers and toes went number. I stopped plenty, but kept a good pace.

I pulled into the Traryd AirBNB 4 hours and 5 minutes after my departure from Lagan. A steady rate of just under 8 mph. 

I am Johan’s second guest. The house is next door to his house. Perhap’s a parent’s that recently passed away, or maybe a neighbor who moved and he bought it. Johan is in his 40, bearded, and friendly, but give the impression that he would rather be out hunting moose than cleaning a house. Part of the deal for letting me in the house five hours before checkout time, was that I make my own bed. The house has a man’s touch, as if I would decorate it. Plenty of free instant coffee and snacks. And the price is reasonable ($74/night).

I found an AirBnb 30 miles from here for tomorrow for only $55, but when I went to book it, they wanted $120. They were charging a $50 cleaning fee. I contacted him and asked to waive it since I was alone (it hosted up to 6 people). He said, “Well I will still have to wash the bed linen.” He offered to split the cleaning fee with me if I would promise to clean the rest of the house. So, instead I booked a room at the Nature Shelter Hotel in Asljunga for $55, which as a huge pushing hill right upon reaching the spot. 

Day 1: Jonkoping, Sweden (40 miles)

7 June 2024: Friday

I knew it was going to be tough. The first day always is. 

Christian and I said our good-byes to the family, I hugged each one, told them to practice up on Parcheesi so when I got back, there would be some semblance of competition. Then we headed out about 8:30 am, but he didn’t even leave the driveway before we heard a huge pop like a firecracker. His back tire had exploded. 

He switched to Isaac’s bike, pumped up the tires, adjusted some brakes, and then I said my good-byes once more, and we departed. 

My seat back kept falling down and rubbing the tire. I must have stopped to adjust it four or five times before our first rest break. Soon after we got to a clear vision of Lake Vattern, the countries second largest lake, we found a gasoline station. I bought a danish and a Diet Pepsi. We sat down at on a park bench and talked. 

A truck driver, likely from Turkey or Iraq, asked us if the water was drinkable. Christian said it was. In fact, it comes from the lake. I have been drinking faucet water since I arrived in Stockholm. 

Christian said that he now understood the attraction of biking. Your mind can wander, and you begin to think about things. I added that the physical challenge of pressing yourself to accomplish 30 or 40 miles each day is important. To push on when you are tired. To convince yourself that you overcome the elements and threats: Wind, rain, hills, heat, cold, sun, exhaustion, inconsiderate drivers, dehydration, diarrhea, fever, loose gravel, dirt paths, and on and on.

We rode on, but I had to rest many times. The wheat fields were beautiful. Cut and baled hay throughout the trip. Cattle and the occasional horse. By the time we arrived at Granna, Christian’s end point, it was noon. We had been traveling 3 hours and 15 minutes and only covered a distance of 16 miles, but I was exhausted. The inclines were not bad at all, but the headwind was 10 mph with gusts of 20. We stopped and had a pastry and a coffee on the street. Then I excused myself, and peddled on.

Christian told me that 15 minutes after I left, Hannah arrived, and he went straight home and took a nap. 

The wind was brutal the whole day. I couldn’t tell that this better bike (used) or the more streamlined bags or my lighter weight or increased exercise did squat. I was just a winded and just as worn out as I was in December in Arizona. I got a couple of brief cramps in my calves while riding. And I kept drinking water. 

By the time that I arrived at the First Hotel ($65/night) in Jonkoping, I was exhausted. It took me just 8 hours 15 minutes to go 40 miles with decent hills. The headwind was the killer.

I crashed about 7pm. Twice leg cramps woke me up, first in the right leg, then the left.

Day 2: Skillingaryd, Sweden

8 June 2024: Saturday

Racing against the clock!

At breakfast, I was alone. I don’t think many people are staying here. I had bacon and eggs. A slice of brown bread. Some granola and yogurt. 

Christian warned me that Swedes can be very cold. Reluctant to talk. So far that has been true. They are often reluctant to even greet you once greeted. While I am riding, I say, hi or “hej, hej” to most everyone. Some people smile and respond. Some see me coming on the bike, stop and turn around, smile, and wait for me to grow near so that they can get a load of me. Maybe half avoid eye contact. He explained that they are not trying to be rude, but trying to not overstep personal boundaries. Others can be very warm and helpful. 

It was due to rain at 1pm, so I decided to go a shorter distance: 20 miles. After a good breakfast in the hotel ($65/night room), I packed everything better this time, and made sure that the seat pack is way off the back tire, and took the elevator downstairs. 

I was out the door and into the parking lot on this brisk Saturday morning about 7:45 am. The temperature was 50 degrees and naturally the wind was coming in from the southwest just like yesterday. Fortunately, the big hill (500 feet incline) came in the first hour. I pushed and rode until I got to the top. 

I was winded, but the gray clouds looked like they wanted to disburden themselves and drench me, so I kept going. Never fast but relatively steady. Still lots of stops but at times only a few minutes break. 

The road was mostly abandoned, riding through small, modern villages. I mistakenly thought it was Sunday the whole trip. That explained the light traffic. I could easily go 20-30 minutes between cars. I ran out of water about 11 am and couldn’t find a spot to get more. 

Finally, I got on a stretch of road with a dense forest of spruce and pine on either side. They blocked the wind for maybe an hour. But just before arriving at Skillingaryd, it began to rain, some 90 minutes before predicted. 

I got pretty drenched, then the rain diminished to sprinkles. I arrived at the apartment ($73/night) at 11:55 am. The couple running the cottages are very kind. They explained that they had visited California and watched their daughter compete in an international body building competition in Columbus, Ohio many years ago. She came in 13th place, but was very disappointed. Today she is married and has kids, and lives here in Sweden. They told me about a cyclist who stayed last night. He was Finnish and riding from Germany to Finland. 

The husband excused himself, and Eva walked me up the back of their property (near the railroad) to a duplex cottage. I cleaned off Heidi’s tires and brought her inside. We sort of hung at the door while the conversation lagged. It was awkward for maybe three minutes, in which both of us wanted to leave, but neither wanted to seem discourteous. We hit upon topics, like where the supermarket was, whether I might stay another day if it rained, I checked my phone and there was rain predicted at 8 am and 12 noon. Could I get to Varnamo before it rains tomorrow (20 miles) or should I wait another day? If I decided to stay, do I book again with Booking.com or come directly to them? Surely it is going to rain all day, she said. Have a nice sleep. Check out time is noon. Leave the key in the door.

“You don’t have many bags, do you?” she asked, noticing only my tiny backpack and my seat bag.

”No, I don’t want too much weight.”

Finally she left, and I dropped my backpack, drank some water, and went back out the door a few minutes later and walked in the drizzle to the supermarket, bought some supplies, including laundry detergent, and walked home in the light rain. 

The cottage has a tiny washing machine, but no dryer. So I have to hang them on an indoor drying rack, so I washed them early, and put them on the rack about 3:45 pm. 

This distance is good for me: 28 miles. Or more accurately, the 4 hours and 10 minutes is ideal. Without the headwind, I could cover more distance. And the cold weather for me—locals are out walking barefoot—and the rain, I could do without. But the rest is good. 

Odeshog, Sweden

5 June 2024: Wednesday

For the past two days in Sweden, I slept in blocks of time. Yesterday, I took three naps ranging from an hour to five hours. Last night, after the sunset just before 10 pm, I put down Dark Matter and fell into a warm sleep for about five hours until about 3:30 am. Just before sunrise, the sky was already lit up. I went down for coffee and my bag of breakfast, identical to yesterday’s. I ate and finished the book that I started sometime Monday. It was pretty good, but I am not eager to start on another one of his novels any time soon. I do look forward to seeing the series on Apple TV, though. 

Showered, packed, and headed downstairs. I bought a ticket on the tram downtown, had to switch trams after the first three stops. A woman was curling her eye lashes and applying mascara while on the tram, a far sight better than applying it while driving to work in the morning, like I have witnessed in the US. 

Seven more stops, and I was in downtown Stockholm. 

Stockholm Central Station was only about four blocks away. I sat down inside around 7 am and tried to purchase a ticket online. I thought better about it, tried to find a ticket booth open, failed, so I went back to the little curved wooden bench with my back to the escalator. I felt this was the safest way to put my credit card information into the app, hoping to keep my information free from criminal eyes. 

Unfortunately, both of my credit card companies rejected the $99 charge for the ticket to Odeshog. One bank is closed until 8 am DC time. So I called the other one. One hour, four customer service and fraud protection, and four rejections later, I finally got the charge approved. 

Whoohoo! 

Uncharacteristically, I managed to keep my cool and remain polite for the entire hour conversation. By the time, I got the ticket, however, I only had 25 minutes to find the track. First things first,  I needed a bathroom. 

I never get used to unisex restrooms. The first one I had ever seen was more than a decade ago in DC. And even today, they make me uncomfortable. 

I made it to the gate a good three minutes before the train rolled in. I boarded Car 5 in the middle of a dispassionate horde of Swedes. Although I had paid $20 extra for a free breakfast and coffee, I ended up with a seat with no breakfast. Perhaps, going in and out of the app in the various attempts to rattle some sense into one of the credit cards, I had clicked the wrong button. 

Car 4 was the food store. I bought a coffee and a muffin with a strange fruit in it. Back at my seat, I tried the fruit, but it was so bitter that I didn’t eat any of it. The taste reminded me of the one and only nisepero or common medlar that I had eaten 40 years ago in El Salvador, that didn’t agree with me and sent the rest of the day at regular intervals between the bed and the outhouse.

The rest of the muffin was moist, lemony, and delicious. Then suddenly, I got ill. Sick to my stomach, but worse, dizzy. I started to black out. I was 30 minutes from my destination. I closed my eyes, focused on my breathing, and tried to relax. For a minute or two, I experienced a state of darkness and physical weakness. Had I been standing, I am certain that I would have fainted. I lost consciousness for a very short period of time, and when I started to recover my senses, I still felt ill and dizzy. By the time my stop at Mjolby arrived, it took every ounce of focus I had to stand up, pull my bag out of the overhead, and advance toward the exit. 

On the platform, I walked slowing, thinking about sitting on one of the benches, but the fresh air helped. Inside the tiny station, I found a bathroom. Unfortunately, it cost 5 Krona, or $.50, and they didn’t accept cash. All the relatively complex instructions on how to do it were in Swedish. I asked a young lady, who was sitting alone actively communicating through her phone, if she knew how to do it, but she politely said, No. 

I finally figured out that of the two options, I could go to a website, set up an account, and pay to pee. So, I did. 

Over the next hour, I drank plenty of water, walked outside and sat on a bench, only to be driven back in by the cold wind. Even at 60 degrees, the brisk Swedish wind was formidable. 

I arrived at two possible causes for the dizzy spell. One was dehydration. I knowingly, had been drinking more diet drinks and coffee at the expense of water. I I know better. So maybe it caught up to me. The other possibility was that this tiny common medlar, the size of a grape, had caused an allergic reaction. 

In any case, Christian and his youngest son arrived and off we went to his home in Odeshog, a village about 20 miles south. The landscape is relatively flat and lush farmland. Beautifully tranquil and sparsely populated. 

We picked up where we had taken off nine years ago, when I last saw him. His son was excited to see an American (don’t ask me why). We caught up on his new business. He and two business colleagues produce and sell high pressure personal protective gear for spray washers 42,500 PSI. 

At his house, I immediately napped for about an hour. I felt better, but still weak, when I awoke. We talked, had coffee, and I drank plenty of water. Then we went for a short walk. His wife Hannah arrived home from work. She is an ordained priest for the Lutheran Church. This was the first time I met her. 

As a family of five, they live in a huge 4,500 square foot rectory. Hannah has decorated the home beautifully with Christian iconography, much of which she picked up while living and working in Palestine. 

A business associate arrived, and I took advantage of the time to nap again. I awoke feeling better yet. 

In the evening, we ate pizza, and I played a game of Ludo, or Parcheesi, with the kids. It was fun. The two oldest each performed a song on the piano and violin. They are great. 

Around 9:30 pm, I excused myself and dove off into sleep. 

Oseshog, Sweden

6 June 2024: Thursday

National Day of Sweden

Christian and I set up my bike. He gave me a spare front light, batteries, a lock, tools, and many other items. Then we drove to Jonkoping, 40 miles away, my first destination on the bike. In the car, we cruised there in 45 minutes. We purchased what I needed for the bike, including a pump cell phone holder, and some other items. I bought some strawberries for dessert. 

When we got back, we enjoyed a Swedish feast: Pickled herring, small potatoes (made by Hannah), Swedish meatballs (made by Adam and Esther), salad (Adam), and for dessert Isaac had made three pies, two rhubarb and one apple. It was marvelous. 

We all napped. Hannah went to church to deliver mass and later bible study. I rode my bike a short distance, attached the other items, and played Parcheesi with the kids. 

I fell asleep around 10pm. 

Stockholm, Sweden

3 June 2024 (Monday)

I woke myself up snoring three times before we left the ground at Frankfurt.  The other two men on my side of the Aisle 11 at the emergency exit didn’t notice. They were both sleeping as well. One was at least four inches taller than me. 

The man on the end was about my size and as soon as the seatbelt light dinged off, he was on his feet, digging into the overhead compartment to withdraw a black pullover. He sat down. Then got right back up and went to an empty seat three or four rows ahead. But no sooner had he got comfortable, than he returned to his original seat. 

I read a little more in Dark Matter, a novel I started on this trip. I started a History of Scandinavia, but about 20 pages was all I could take of such dryness. However, one thing I learned began to make sense as we flew over the archipelago scattered from the Baltic Sea up to Stockholm. The massive network of 30,000 islands, reefs, and skerries or rocky islands (I had to look it up) serve as earthen dalliances of narrow landmasses and clumps of stone rising out of the sea to gradually form southeastern Sweden. 

The European Union represents many contradictions for foreigners. On the one hand, I swept through an immigration check at Frankfurt, where a very kind young man chatted with me about riding my bike across Scandinavia for a few minutes. He seemed amazed that I could ride 60 kilometers (40 miles) or so per day on a normal bike. 

“In Germany, many people also ride that far in one day but on electric bikes,” he said.

On the other hand, there are no immigration checks when you leave the Stockholm airport (coming from an EU country). I rather enjoy that feature. 

Although, my overhead bag rode with me from Honduras to Houston, because I was in the last group, Group 5, to board at Houston (because I bought the second to last cheapest economy ticket), the United Airlines clerks used the old tactic to put us in our low class place. Ironically, I didn’t buy the cheapest economy ticket because I wanted to be able to take my bag with me.  

“I am in touch with the attendants on board,” a potbellied young man in a UA uniform told us, holding up his trusty walkie-talkie. “The overhead bins are full. You will have to check your bags.”

Of course, I knew this was hogwash, but I didn’t stress over it. And when I got on board, I saw all kinds of space in the overhead bins. But by then it was too late. My bag was in the underbelly of the plane. Nowadays, you don’t want to complain too much or you will find yourself on a no-fly list. 

So, as I stood there waiting for my bag at Carousel 5 in Stockholm, I wondered if my bag made it. It was getting close to 6:30 pm. Google maps told me I was 23 miles from my hotel. I tried to fight down the stress. I saw prices for buses to Stockholm city for about $20. But then I would have to take a train or a taxi to the hotel. Maybe another $20. I had no SIM card, so I only had internet while in the airport. 

Many people getting their bags and leaving, but several of us were still waiting. I wondered if we were all low-class Group 5 stragglers from different international flights. Interestingly, there is a yellow line marked about 30 inches away from and all around the carousel, behind which passengers are to stand. And more interestingly, customers honor the line. 

But then my bag rolled out. I had left about $150 in Honduran Lempiras in it, and I wondered if it would make it. But not to worry, everything was inside. 

I stopped at a counter where people were selling train tickets. I asked where I could find a money changer. They told me, but a man said, “Don’t change too much into Swedish Krona. People don’t use it.”

“Oh, should I get Euros?” I asked.

“No, we don’t really use them here.” Another contradiction. Indeed, all prices are in Swedish Krona.

“So what do I use?”

“We are a cash free country,” his female colleague said.

This naturally worried me a little. I have not had the best of luck with credit cards recently. The Arizona trip was a bit of a nightmare. But I plugged on.

First thing I needed to do was to get to the hotel, I figured. But I should have invested in a SIM card instead. I would suffer for that blunder later. 

At the information gate, after studying my hotel’s address and the various routes, the nice lady in her 50s told me, “There are three options.” Then she explained I needed to take one train to a certain station, walk a few blocks, take another train to another station, then walk a few more blocks. That was the most direct. In fact, there as also another, faster train option that was over double, and a bus option too. This train option would cost about $20 provided I left right now up the stairs to one of the two train stations.

“Can you write it down for me?” I had no idea what the stations were that she was talking about. The names were all in Swedish.

“Here,” she said, moving her screen around, “take photo. That is better than my handwriting.”

I took a photo. 

“Can I buy the ticket from you?”

“You are better off to buy it upstairs,” she said. “You only have six minutes. And if you miss that. The next train doesn’t leave for 30 minutes.”

“That’s OK. I can wait 30 minutes. But I am confused.”

Although I have visited or lived in more than 50 foreign countries for much of my adult life, I still struggle with so many aspects of international travel. I am better at technology than many, but I have huge gaps in my understanding. 

Two train systems (slow and fast). Unrecognizable names of train stations. No internet on my phone to track movement or stops or to call the hotel if I got lost. It was now approaching 7 pm. 

“Wait till about 10 minutes before you leave to buy your ticket” the clock is ticking. 

Well, there is a new wrench in my cognitive system. It makes perfect sense if you know where you are going and how to get there. If you are struggling to figure out which train to board and which stop to get off to and which direction to walk to get to the next stations and so on, that ticking clock merely adds to my anxiety. 

However, I left her. She clearly didn’t want to sell me a ticket. 

So, I walked on trying to find the slow train stairs, but I only saw the fast train stairs. After a few minutes of literally walking in circles, I just walked out to a taxi. There were about 50 of them stacked up and no customers. Probably because the taxi costs $75 to take people where they are going and the slow train only $20. 

The driver was Arab, I think, but didn’t speak very good English. And I couldn’t speak any Swedish, so we struggled. He didn’t know where the Biz Apartment Bromma was, and I had to look up the address on his phone. And I worried that my credit card wouldn’t work after all of this. And when we got to Bromma, he couldn’t find the hotel immediately. He asked me where it was. But with no internet to feed Google Maps, I was clueless. 

But we found it. He remained friendly. My card worked. And I got into my room without incident. 

Across the street is a big mall called Galleria. I walked over around 8 pm to get something to eat and an adapter for the European plugs. Just inside the mall is a telecommunications shop called, Tela2. The young man was closing, but still asked what I needed. I told him, but he said they can’t sell them to foreigners who don’t have Swedish ID cards. 

The mall was closing, so I walked back to the supermarket below the hotel. I bought some things for dinner and an adapter. Two knives for my trip. And some other items. 

The sun set just before 10 pm, and the rose at 3:39 am. 

I had slept only about three hours in the past 36 or so, I easily succumbed.

Stockholm, Sweden

4 June 2024 (Tuesday)

Stockholm is 60 degrees latitude, about the same as St. Petersburg Russia and Anchorage, Alaska (61 degrees). So, the nights are very short in early June, and get shorter as the summer presses on.

My alarm was set for 6:30 am, but I was up well before 4 am. 

I went down for coffee. I also bought another adapter I needed and a special cord to charge my iPad. The clerk was Sundaram, originally from Sri Lanka. He was a little cold at first, but soon warmed up. 

He gave me bag of breakfast, which included apple juice, a tiny apple, two pieces of bread, two slices of meat, a slice of cheese, some yogurt and tasteless granola—the type my daughter eats, so it is probably healthier than what I am used to—and some butter, jam, and cream cheese. It wasn’t bad. 

But by 5 am, I dozed off again. I felt guilty. Funny, huh? When I was in school and played hooky, I felt guilty when the Price is Right came on. Oh, I and I missed a lot of school my last semester. It is a long story but suffice it that I already had my credits, but was being rebellious for a variety of reasons.

Even today, if I take a day off through the week, I hate daytime TV, because I feel like I am playing hooky. On weekends, my 4:35 am alarm goes off, and I get up and start my research. And now, even on vacation, I feel like I need to be doing something constructive. And going back to sleep is a tiny bit sinful.

Understandably, I dreamt a recurring dream about needing to go back to high school to earn my diploma although I have college degrees. Guilt is a funny thing, isn’t it?

Back at the lobby, another man told me I would have to pay for coffee. Free coffee is only with breakfast. At 3 Euros a pop (about $3.3 for a tiny cup of good, strong coffee). I walked back down to the supermarket and bought 16 packets of dry coffee (that makes 16 cups) for about the same price of two cups. Back at the room, I made two cups. It wasn’t quite as good as the machine made downstairs, but it wasn’t bad.

I also finally activated Apple Pay, which allows me the luxury of contactless payments, which means that people don’t have to check my ID frequently when I buy something. Two trips to the grocery, for instance, required two ID checks.

At the Tele-2 store, a nicer young man than the first sent me to the small convenience shop inside the mall, where “you can bet on horse races,” he explained. There, a Lebanese man in his 50s sold me a SIM card ($4) and top up credit. I had to change dollars into Krona to pay for the phone credit in cash. 

“This company is strange,” he said. “You can buy the SIM card with a foreign credit card, but you usually have to pay cash to use it.” He registered my passport to get the SIM card and charged the phone. I texted Christian to make sure it was working. 

It was only 10:35 am, but I was hungry. I bought a POKE bowl at the food court. It was OK, but not great. Then I took the escalator upstairs to the sporting goods store. I bought three saddle bags that go behind the seat and over and above the bar between the seat and handle bars. I am trying something different this time, hoping that I cut a little weight and balance the bike in the process. All of my trips until now have had a very lopsided bike with my weight on the seat and then another 35 pounds or so in the back. I am hoping that these bags and my backpack are enough to carry everything I need. We’ll see. 

Back at the room, I read and napped and read again. Then I went downstairs. I had spent the better part of an hour on the internet last night and today, trying to figure out how to get from here to Stockholm Central Station. From there, I would catch a train to Odeshog to meet Christian. I had searched websites offering to sell me tickets and looked at maps, but I got even more confused. There is a train, light train, tram, and subway. Each of them have their own routes, naturally, like DC, NY, or any other big city. I rode the Marc Train to DC from Maryland each day, and then navigated the city by the metro. At first it was a little daunting, but at least I could read the signs. In Stockholm on Day Two, I had given up. It was too complicated unless you had done it once. I decided instead that I would drag my roller bag 1.4 miles to the next station that will take me to Alvik. But I wanted make sure that it was safe to walk alone in the morning. 

The same young lady who checked me in last night was working. She told me it was much simpler to just take the tram outside. I told her it was too complicated. 

“No, it is very easy.” She pulled out a laminated sheet of paper with the steps mapped out. Seemed like just about everyone wanted to go there. She helped me download the Stockholm app that allowed me to navigate transportation options, and then book and pay for the one that was best for me. Suddenly, a huge burden was lifted. I had a cell phone, adapters to charge my electronics, bags I feared I would not find in Odeshog, Apple Pay feature to pay hassle free, and now the apps and knowhow of a Swedish teen to move about the city. 

It was time for a cheeseburger. I walked down to Rockin Burger at the Galleria mall and ordered a spicy cheeseburger and came back to the room to eat it. I washed up my dishes, organized a few things for tomorrow, feeling like I was beginning to enjoy myself.