Day 12: Gothenburg

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March 4, 2008: Gothenburg, Sweden

I must be heavier than I thought. Like a marathon runner reaching his limit and finally collapsing; like a new college graduate, crushed by the weight of the world (poor bastards), such was my mattress. Halfway through the night the burden proved too much for it. I woke up sleeping not on an air mattress, but on two thin sheets of vinyl. The remaining air decided to evacuate the area directly beneath me as their spirits and their will broke. There I lay, flanked by the cushion formerly used to prop me up, now in a valley. Moses himself would be proud of such a parting.
I made my way to the kitchen, stretching as I walked, and periodically ran into things along the way--multitasking should only be attempted by those fully awake and clear-eyed. Henrik showed me where everything was for breakfast the night before since he knew he wouldn't be up, so I fumbled around in the cupboards. Figuring out what box to grab and making sure to pour milk instead of orange juice on cereal is hard enough when groggy, but trying to do all that while not knowing what anything says is even worse. Most of the pictures on the boxes and containers looked like food, but one can never be sure. I went for the only thing that sounded vaguely familiar--Muesli--and poured it over some yogurt. As my eyes began to focus I looked down into the bowl and, to my relief, found I had not grabbed any toilet cleanser or window cleaner.
Munch... no gag reflex activated, that's a plus.
Munch... not bad.
Munchmunchmunch... hey, this is pretty damn good. Swedish food may not be so bad after all. Besides, it's not like I'm in England.
Henrik stumbled in, much the same way I did, around mid-morning. Seeing someone besides myself walking through the effects of cognitive limbo--neither asleep nor awake--made me truly appreciate its comedic quality.
After breakfast we stepped outside, into the land that heat forgot, for a brief tour of, for lack of a better term, Henrik's campus. The campus looked more like an industrial park than the green expanses and shaded groves that plaster college brochures: not unappealing, but not terribly attractive either. That is, until we rounded the corner. A small harbor abutted the campus, creating a rolling-hill skyline, pointed with the occasional steeple. Henrik told me it's much nicer in the summer when the entire area is more of a hub of students and young professionals sprawling along the waterway as they study, visit, or eat lunch. What the surrounding buildings lacked in aesthetics, they more than made up for with their occupants: Erricson, Volvo, Saab, among others. All have offices or research facilities there. I changed my mind when Henrik told me that. This was an ideal spot for a college campus.
My phone rang as I stood there watching a massive ship being repaired, men and equipment scurrying around it like ants on a crumb. It was my mom again, calling to see if I'd bought a coat yet. I told her I hadn't, that it wasn't very cold here right now, and that I might buy one in Salzburg if I thought I needed one. God has a wonderful sense of irony and timing, as once I hung up the phone it began to hail. Damn mothers for always being right.
Henrik and I rushed back to the car, flinching periodically as the hail pelted us, forgetting our own pain and laughing at the other person's misery every time an "ouch!" issued forth. Once the hail subsided Henrik reverted to his rally driver persona and away we sped to run a few errands.
Seven trains, one bus, one tram, 1,850 miles later my panniers were finally going home. Finally, I can have more of a freedom of mobility on trains. Plus, this makes it easier to flip people off. Let's face it, giving someone the finger loses a lot of its impact when one has to fumble with bags to get their hand free. Fed Ex seems to have a different way of shipping things in Sweden than they do in the U.S. Once the paperwork was done, Henrik and I started wrapping everything together with tape, as instructed. The clerk went off somewhere, so we just kept on wrapping, much to the delight of their tape suppliers. Just as a joke, we left as little of the bags showing as possible--all that was left was what looked like a large ball of tape. The clerk came back and finished everything up, then sent the bags out for shipping. Boxes?--no, bubblewrap?--no, some sort of airbag like NASA used to land the Mars Rover?--of course not, the Swedes have tape and that's all they need. So, in a few days my parents will receive a package that looks like it was sent by a bored, over-caffeinated Swede with a tape fetish. I felt better knowing that I wouldn't have to lug those around anymore. I smiled and felt a whole lot better knowing that it would take two days for my parents to unwrap the damn things. Thank you Sweden and your wacky shipping practices.
"Michael," Henrik said as we headed back to town, "but we all call him 'Gimp'." Gimp turned out to be a much larger man than I, so I stuck to calling him Michael. He was dressed all in black, with a red goatee, and a skin tone that made me feel tan. We went to lunch at a Turkish restaurant, because when I think of Sweden, Turkish food always comes to mind. History being a great interest of the three of us, Henrik and Michael were given free reign to tell the complete history of the Swedish and Danish people as we enjoyed our chicken kebabs. It's nice to have both perspectives on an issue (Henrik is Danish, just living in Sweden), even if the conversation did occasionally revert to name calling and who did what to who first. I lost track of what person belonged to which faction, and what place was invaded by whom as every time a name was pronounced I kept picturing the Swedish Chef from the "Muppets".
After lunch we road-tripped up north to meet another friend of Henrik's at a small cafe. Street lights flickered on as twilight ebbed, illuminating my breath as we neared and passed each one. I did what everyone does in instances like this, from childhood to adulthood, across cultural boundaries: I lifted my head, let out a breath and pretended to smoke. The comforting warmth of the sun gave way to the cold chill of darkness, peppered with neon lights. We walked down a quaint cobble-stoned street in this humble Scandinavian town, engulfed by the crisp night air and flanked by local shops set into traditional Swedish buildings that lost nothing of their authenticity, despite being modernized by electric signs and run by people of a more westernized slant than their ancestors. We turned a corner and there it was again, the same out of place sight that left me slightly bewildered in Venice--another Harry's Bar. He must be setting up franchises just out of spite.
The cafe was warm and well stocked with food. I walked the length of the counter looking at the different types of fare: lots of fish sandwiches, different types of pastries I'd never seen before. One stood out: a swirling heap of white, like a cloud captured and hardened, with black streaks, unmoving to the touch. I studied it for a few minutes trying to figure out just what this strange amoebic shape could be, like watching a car crash out of morbid curiosity. When I returned from the bathroom, the mystery pastry was waiting at my place for me, daring me to eat it. Michael had bought it for me while I was indisposed. After one bite I knew what it was--not the actual name, but what I would have called it. The only apt explanation is death by sugar. Apparently this is a meringue that's more sugar than egg whites, drizzled with chocolate, and served to those who feel like getting the inevitable onset of diabetes out of the way right now. The three of us split it. I would be up all night running laps around Henrik's apartment complex if I had eaten the whole thing.
Back home we made a quick dinner and stayed up until tomorrow--wait, we can't stay up until tomorrow because then it would be today and we'd have to wait another twenty-four hours for it to be tomorrow again. We stayed up past midnight again, talking, before I re-inflated my bed and flopped down, intent on parting the air mattress sea again.

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