Message in a Bottle

Last night, after a beautiful Caesar in the shade, I traipsed over to my first ever lesbian party. It was on an old barge, strung with colorful lights and balloons, the champagne was 10 euro a bottle and the view was of the sun setting over the green copper roofs of City hall – with a bit of cream brush over the sky for effect.

The boat was heaving with base and young bodies, all tans, plimsolls and cutoffs (except me, straight from work in bankerpants) and a slow surf. Someone wore a sailors-cap at a jaunty angle, someones ears glinted drooping gold, and the girl at the entrance drew a sloppy heart on my hand… in other words, the stage was set, if ever, for falling head over heels.

And since I didn’t even stumble, but instead spent a few fun hours having a laugh with friends, utterly unstirred by all this beauty (except one girls fabulous nape, really remarkable jointwork) I must assume that I am back in the closet – leaving the door ajar for fear of stifling, but still, firmly, ensconced amongst the coats. Taking a cab home, I was back before midnight.

Now, you’d think that being a good Cinderella like that would have some apeacing effects on my poor battered liver. That I wouldn’t feel jarred and wrought today, that I would wake full of the springtime hopes of early morning. But no, apparently the accumulated effects of a good time and a lazy schedule have been one to many for my poor flesh. I can take no more. Not another drop. 

Giving the dark hours a bit of a rest will hopefully give me the time to pursue other interests: like balchony gardening, wardrobe maintainance (seeing as I will be spending the forseeable future in there), finishing the last chapter of the History of Norwegian Kings of the Dark Ages, getting back on the bike, feeding myself, mending brokeback fifthies paperbacks, carefully monitoring the office gossip. Oh, and turning 80.

Less is More

So, I guess you are all wondering how the Date went (see yesterdays entry). Right off the bat I can tell you it was a lot better than most I’ve been on before, in that it didn’t even happen. I had a sudden surge of work, an overload if you will, and had to cancel, about an hour before take-off.

When I finally did get out of the office, the guy in work, the intern and I went for calming cocktails and an in-detail gossip session about relationships past, present, and future. Which was very nice in that it put a lot of my personal grievances into proportion. For example, I have never found an unexpected altar in a guys bedroom, bought a house with a coke-head, or been brought my yogurt with the cornflakes arranged in the shape of a heart.

Mostly though, we were on the more serious subject of a disease, striking down the young, having reaped many a victim in our acquaintance: a plague of unprecedented proportions. Easily contracted through human interaction, bound to scar and maim you for life, it is here and it is severe.

We are talking, of course, about texting: a scourge that takes many different paths of infection and that gives a variation of symptoms, leaving the subject open to hurt, embarrassment, and the failing of relationships on a variety of levels. Myself, I suffer from the common TWD, Texting While Drunk, the IRIA: Instant Reply Implying Availability and the SFC, Supposedly Funny but Cryptic.

I think my symptoms mirror my personality, but in sort of a fun-house way, distorting the angles. For example: ironic and kind of clever, in T9, becomes overly intricate and stilted; polite and spontaneous are reflected as desperately quick on the buttons and bored. As for the TWD…well, I guess that is a correct image of the way I have no thought for tomorrow after the second glass.

I thank my lucky stars though, that I have not caught the worst of them all: BOOK: Blatantly Obvious and Overly Keen. BOOK combines IRIA with a host of other symptoms, like OW (Over Wordiness) SC (Sickening Cuteness) and (RS) Rampant Smileys. It lets you know everything about the other persons level of attraction, availability and sense of the cloying at a glance, and after that, leaves precious little incentive for further discoveries.

Being in a texting situation with a BOOK-sufferer is very much like trying to hold back the tide with a sieve, or containing a storm in a paper bag. Your arms hurt from the sheer physical effort and your feel damn tired of the element in question. Your answers get shorter and shorter (but at the same time, since you have IRIA yourself, you can’t bring yourself to play the waiting game), your tone less and less friendly, but your SFC won’t let you spell out plain rejection. Meanwhile the other party gets more and more explicit, long-winded and persistent and might, in some terminal cases, end a message with a flower constructed from dashes and parenthesis…

Cures, you ask? I’m not sure if you can ever truly heal, but seeing how I react to infected messages (abhorrence, fatigue and a complete loss of interest in sender) sure gives an inscentive for some home remedies. Alas, I have decided to try a little self medicating: a concoction of short, succint answers, never sending a text after 11 at night and waiting an on-the-clock hour before answering any inquieries.

Which means till further notice, all spur of the moment offers for drinks will be answered the next morning, with a simple “no”. And in case you get a blip at three tomorrow morning – the road to hell was at least paved with good intentions.

Made to Measure

Well, I suppose I knew this day was coming. I have been off for a while, hiding behind the “just coffees” and the “almost businesses” and the “Mondays don’t counts”. But tonight is the night when, after a bit of playing hard to get and lowering my feminist standards, I have a proper Date. Which - skipping over all the juicy but irrelevant parts such as with whom, where and why – brings us to the more general subject of quantity/quality in matters of the heart. 

First a word to our foreign readers: in Sweden, land of relationship-shattering-equality and social-mine-field-producing-liberation, the concept of the Date is not really that well established. We have replaced the time tested mating rituals of mankind with a slippery slope of knowing his friends, getting tipsy at Kvarnen, renting a DVD and then, three kids down the road, maybe going out for a cocktail. The idea of the woman not paying her own way, not walking herself home through the icky parts of town, or not asking the man out to start with are antiquated, and the focus is, instead, on a cost effective and rational way of populating the lands.

Saturday nights are not for being picked up at home and taken for a meal, but rather for dutch treat at the cinema, if things are serious, or individual nights on town with friends, ended with booty-calls, if things are just budding. I could, if I were a kiss and tell kind of gal, tell you all manners of horrors regarding dingy bars, stingy men and rude advances.

The dating period is best likened to a gruelling session with some downscaling consultant, a bespectabled little twat intent on lowering overheads and keeping his eyes on the numbers: the ideal business model being the girl who will happily take half a burger, a lame line and some sweaty groping in return for her heart. And while this is efficient and rhymes well with other national notions, such as IKEA: available to all, but not very glam, it can get on a girls nerves sometimes.

So in a valiant effort to spare those nerves, I have decided I’d rather be custom fitted solid oak than plywood. Which means saving up for that rare but tolerably civilized option instead of digging any further into the endless supply of outwardly feminist inwardly cheap males in the bargain bin. This, in turn,  means upping my own quality control. Because let’s face it: if you expect a man to cough up a compliment and a glass of rosé, the doors cannot be creaking.  

For one, you have the issue of dressing. When dating the Swedish way, you have two options: being one of the guys, (a potential new friend with boobs), or being a quick fix, which is about boobs, period. Dressing for both of those is easy: jeans and a low cut top. But how in the name of the good lord do you dress as a dewy daffodil? How do you make your dress and purse say: thank you for treating me as a human being, your reward is upcoming? What kind of perfume says: we both know we may shag, but thank you for not letting on? And most importantly, what kind of heels bring your bottom out to great, but dignified, effect?

Still: musing on these things you can do at work. Okay, you may be drafting a release, but it doesn’t mean you can’t keep an eye on Shopbob and one on Fug for inspiration, or carefully consider the effects of you ducks-egg bra under a dark blue modest eyelet top while humming along with your boss, weigh the lock hanging down on the left versus the tendril on the right while sorting through you Outlook, or that you cannot sneak out in your lunch hour to buy the newest FACE Stockholm shade of cherry lipgloss.

But there is another investment you make; harder to circumnavigate by sheer lazyness in the workplace. I am talking about the actual time you have to put into the Dating before you get a little something something. Say you have to wait an average of four nights per potential partner, to find out weather they tango or no. And out of potential dancers, maybe every twentieth will be worth that wait. That means, hold on – let me get my calculator – spending  80 nights trying to get laid, not counting the three-odd workweeks you will have spent reading Cosmo and frying your brain decoding text messages… 

Still, on balance, I have to say I prefer the Dating to the dating. Sure, it may decrease my productivity in the workplace and thusly reduce the Swedish BNP. But with all the cash I will spend on LBD’s and faux pearls, and the dosh a small army of He will put towards Bellinis and cab rides, I think we may still keep the economy afloat.

Rock the Casbahrn

You may see me walking the streets of Stlm, sitting at my desk, doing the laundry or eating a pear. But it is only my body that is present: my soul, my heart, and all of my longing are back in the weekend, back in the best Rockabilly extravaganza of the ages, and back in a very very short minidress.

Let me start from the beginning. My brother, by sheer dumb luck, has managed to snag himself the perfect girl. She is not only a very clever artist (though not for those of you who prefer woodland pixie Mucha types of painting) but she also cooks a mean salt-lake steak, knows how to handle the reins of wild horses, and is part of an female artist collective called Huluboda Konstförening (page in Swedish). And Huluboda Konstförening, in turn, centers around a vast and slightly deranged mansion out in the middle of nowhere. 

The house is condemned, or should be, the drunk carpenter I met over the weekend implied, with a sideline of -so why don’t you stay at my place instead, much safer. The concrete structure crumbling, the floorboards in the hallway loose, the well seldom enough to supply water for more than a quick rinse of the assorted glasses and rare plates. It is decorated with the same lovely furniture that has been there for always, only now its been through the wringer a few times and is slightly looser of bolt and plank, and the couches, beds and wardrobes seem to be always filled with not only the artist of the collective themselfs, but also all of their drive-through boyfriends, pedicure kits, younger siblings, furs, dogs and startled neighbours.

In this healthhazard people laze about in bikinis and discuss sex, paint, and coffee – in that order, wash their hair in the lake and hope the wiring will last one more summer. Oh, and then every now and then they pool their grants, left overs and sugar-daddy cash and throw incredible parties.

They say that danger enhances sensation: and that is, I suppose, why there is always an element of the sublimely foolhardy and death-defying in their hostessing. Last midsummer for instance, the first time I visited, someone had unwittinly invited an arsonist. And then we accidentally triggered him by setting fire to the maypole, since it was too rainy to dance around it.

The result was, that inbetween indisciminate snogging, quite a serious head injury, and a slight boy getting lost and ending up on the couch of the local leather clad German, we had to put out several fires, some in and some out of the house. The damage from the burning plastic bags in the attic wasn’t too bad though: it was a good thing, as the paramedics pointed out, the holes in the roof were fixed with nothing more permanent than a few frilly Chinese umbrellas. And it was only the next day, as we dragged ourselfs out of our respective unfounded embraces that we noticed that the neighbours poolhouse was a bit of a smouldering smokey ruin…

Anyway, this summer, when a few of them decided to embrace all that is hillbilly, americana and bbq, and threw a big Rockabilly convention, no one was really sure of what to expect, except a lot of booze. But they got a band in, built a bar, set up a few old iron crates for fires, mowed the field and offered a bottle of Scotch to whoever would show up in the nicest car. And when I heard, I had no option but to pack my Mötley Crüe book and my yellow buckle shoes and get on the bus.

On the day-of, we lazed around in bikins and discussed sex, paint and coffee until it afternoon, then we went down to the lake to wash our hair, and get into our respective skimpy outfits – complete with torn stockings, red smeared lips and dangling fags.

As the heat cooled, the birds were silenced by the thrumming bass warming up, and we heard the first uphill revving of an engine. And as the sky turned golden over the cherry tree and we finished the dregs in our glasses of rosé, they started arriving: carloads full of tats and grease, leather and sturdy boots.

I don’t think anyone had expected quite such a turnout: there were at least twohundred people there, and while some hung out by their motors trying to lure girls in for a spin, most of us were up in the barn, stomping the floor down to the excellent rythms of Skinny Jim and the Wildcats. 

150 people rocking like there was no tomorrow in a space meant for ten bales of hay, a prize-bottle of Scotch drunk instead of handed out, Danes going from bed to bed and all the while, Larry the dog barking at the end of her chain, fires blazing and meat fizzling, the haywire-wiring of the extra electrics lighting up the barn in a cheery doomsday glow, candles lit on old vats of oil, a creamcoloured beauty honking and the bats flipping out and swooping down on the cherries, me still with a swimsuit on underneath the velvet sheat, heels digging into rotten wood or mulched ground… to sum up, it was a damn good party.

Actually, even now in the office, I can’t help but keep the beat, still dredging the corners of my eyes for lost mascara, pining for next time and scouring the web for last minute tickets to the upcoming Stray Cats concert. And with that comes two dawning realisations.

For one, a house in the woods like that, where you can hang out all day, talking about sex, paint and coffee in a bikini? I have to get that. And secondly: I need to paint more.

Get Out?

I have a cousin, we know each other quite well - used to poop in the same diaper as infants and have been getting closer since. She is a brilliant analyst, who can bring her cutting logic to bear successfully on most situations where others would flounder, swaddled in heavy wet drapes of emotive language and preconception. If you will allow the mixed metaphor. All this savvies and Occam-ish precision was brought to bear on my lovelife the other day – with very remarkable consequences.

I said my main issue is finding someone to like, and how this happens very very rarely, and how I might be a bit of a picky customer. How, perhaps, my recent engagement was the result of some sort of backlash, where I suddenly felt, after years of refusing to settle, that I needed to become more realistic in my expectations and how this, subsequently, led me to drop all standards. I made her promise to question me very seriously, the next time, to make sure I wasn’t just giving in to some urge for twosomes, but actually in like with the fellow.

On all these points she agreed, but one. She asked me very simply: am I sure it needs to be a fellow? How about a fellowette?

Her reasoning is sound. I mean, there has been one common denominator between all of my waning interests: they have all been men (well, more or less). And none of them have been any dead ringers for love. So maybe, it is time to explore other options. There are a few hitches in the plan, but as we lingered over another frosty glass and jar of nuts, my cousin beat them all into submission.

Firstly: I am not attracted to women. But as she said: why should it be any different than with a man? They are usually no film-stars either – have a few beers and everyone will look champion.

Then there is the problem of the know-how.I have had 27 (or 27.6, depending on whom you ask) years of experience batting my eyes at the male variety of the species. But when it comes to picking up a girl, I am clueless. This question was mooted though, as dear cuz explained that no matter: they will know how to pick me up, so I needn’t worry.

Lastly, as if by coincidence, was solved the issue of how to find a natural opening. And as luck would have it: next week is Stockholm Pride, which means ample opportunities for exploring the weaker sex. I will be a veritable Dian Fossey, and can only hope that no one will poach my misty gorillas.

So in short – my resistance is futile against the combined influences of margaritas and calm reasoning, and next week at the PRIDE I shall be venturing onto hereto uncharted waters. I must say I maintain a slight scepticism about finding the love of my life back stage at some feminist drag show, and I absolutely refuse not to shave my pits, but, as I may have mentioned before: I will leave no stone unturned less than twice.

Anyway, I can hardly hook anything more slimy than can be found in the usual pond, right? And yes, I will keep you posted.

Third-Life Crisis

An eerie calm has descended over the office. The only two people left standing are a hung-over, mini-break planning colleague and I – me just back from a two hour lunch, him online searching for cheap rooms in Greece. Every now and then the fridge hums, or I gasp having seen something extraordinary on the Shopbop sale. But all else is quiet, dozing in the heat and the complete lack of ambition.

So little have we to do, that we both did some sort of online gimmick test, to find out how adult we really are. You reply to a load of predictable, innane multiple choice questions, with complete lack of fitting answers, and the little man inside the blipping box will come back with your true age.

Well, I said that I like my coffee black and my wine drinkable, that I own a home (rented out though, since bought it in the wrong part of the bloody country) and that I put up the occasional decoration for X-mas. Also that I do not have children, accidental or otherwise, that I do not drive and that I have been known to be late paying my bills.

And yes, after a moments consideration, I was told that my age is 27.6; leaving me to wonder what has added the extra half a year. And also to ponder that statistically, I have probably done an approximate third of the things I am to do.

If life was a bicycle trip from Ystad to Stockholm, I would be outside Vassmolösa. If life was a working day, I would be having a pre-lunch apple. If life was a diet, I would be cursing the branflakes and wishing for strenght. And if life was a relationship all would be roses—till about tomorrow, when I would start feeling fed-up and noticing his way of crunching on breadcrusts.

There are a few things that need fitting in to this next third. Like a few sons, a huge villa with a glass verandah, and getting through revisions of that damn collection of poems that is still gathering dust and a guilty, sort-of-spent-the-advance, conscience. And there are a few things that needen’t, perhaps, be brought along into this next stage of life. Measels, flowered stirrup-pants, and waking up in the wrong area-code.

But for today I’ll just sit on the cusp, dangling my legs over the abyss that is middle age.

Changing My Tune

Hot Damn: summer in the city, just got to love it. Endless blue evenings of drinks with a view, fabulous camisoles at a 70% markdown and juicy black cherries on the steps on the concert hall. All over town are smiling faces, loose limbs and pink salmon sushi. Can’t imagine what I was ever doing out in the sticks. 

Even just getting from one place to another in the concrete jungle is a bit of a rush. Slip on them shades and them Havaianas and take off. Ignoring the tourists and the gulls it is a little bit like stepping out on the moon, drifting on the high of a hectic schedule and yet completely detached. Floating.

Yesterday, I was strolling from lunch in the shadow of elms with a tan man just back from basking in his Italian honey-moon, ripe with stories of tomatoes and cool stone floors. I was meandering towards dinner with a cousins honey blond short crop and green velvet jacket. Then later, after jugs of chilled rosé in the late sunset, I wound my way back to green tea on the balcony up in the crown on the yard birch. Glorious, but after a bit I noticed a hitch in my step, a something slightly off – the soundtrack.

An integral part of the experience of walking through the baking cityscape is having the right type of tunes in my headphones. And yesterday I realised I do not. Anylonger.

The 6 hours or so of music I stash in my cellphone have been accumulated over the past two or three years, added according to mood and love. Each song relates to someone (one person owning both all of Chris Isaak and Martha Wainwrights Bloody Motherfucking Asshole, another hogging all possible versions of Bizarre Love Triangle, ever; a third before my minds eye whenever Captain Beefheart croons about the bluejeans and moonbeams).

Yes, each song relates to someone. But the thing is, I don’t relate to those people anymore. Which makes walking through the streets listening to their impotent wailings more like a walk down memory lane, down to the graveyard of emotion, than the vibrant speed-fest it actually is.

The problem became even more evident late last night, when I heard the well known chimings of someone fortgottens personalized ringtone. For while some ties are obvious and eternal: like Parton 9-5 on all office numbers, Pale Blue Eyes and best friend, Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend and sister: others quickly become dated… like when no longer dating and still hearing about those damn islands in the stream.

And then there is the issue of adding new people to your roster when the space for songs are filled up. Once they become to important to file under the standard Tom Petty I use for random numbers – what do you do? Do a new and an old A share Fever? Does Summer of 69 become mutual property of B, C, and D? And if X and Y are both Tainted Love – what does that do to my screening process?

Well, the solution to all these problems is obvious. I shall erase all old songs (save some extra special AC/DC, and Big Love by Roxette without which I absolutely cannot get through a rainy Monday) and replace them with new, fresh, exciting melodies. It will be very interesting to see what new little jingle will announce the beeping of the past. And what will happen now that both Ring of Fire and Here You Come Again are up for grabs.

Tan Lines

I do not know the man or woman who came up with the misconception of Summer being a time of Beauty. But I would like to present myself to him or her and say, simply: Well?

I understand the allure of naming the hot season the season of natural hotness. For one thing, it gives us the ability to pretend that all those barely there clothes have an aesthetic dimension, as opposed to a purely carnal one, seldom the touchstone for style.

Also, when the temperature rises, oh so briefly, it is good to have “relaxed-chic” “newly-boho” and “surf-chick” as excuses for leaving your hair limp and your shirt rumpled (perhaps with a stain of guacamolele or the cherry concoction at Rouge on the sleeve for good measure) - your laziness and summer state of permanent intoxication is shielded by the idea of a casual, laisse faire style.

But fine words and spreads in Vogue do not change the true state of things. In Summer, Nature goes savage – and everything you have worked hard for over months of battling with blow-driers, moisturizers and presses is savaged by it.

Skin, for example, is suddenly everywhere. If you keep it in the shade, it will be white and damp. If you keep it in the sun, it will become a leathery hide. And if you do what I did, last week, and spend much time outdoors, only partly covered, you will become a patchwork of different colours, your very own little Joli-Pitt rainbow.

My hands and arms are a dark brown. My shoulder-blades are almost chocolate, brought out by the startling white cross of my sports top. From breastbone and down to my knees, we have a landscape of moonlike pallor, and then there are the faintly latte legs and strong tea feet, hold the milk. 

The result is that I am actually having a hard time matching myself – for what goes with my South-most bits clashes with my nose, and the freckles of my forehead fight with anything stripey I could wear, while the stipes imprinted on my very flesh rule out any type of asymmetric cuts.

And as if this wasn’t enough, then we have hair. I will not discuss its quality, only mention briefly that such thinness as that of mine is enviable on any part of any woman save her head. What’s more though, come July, I wake up with curls. Big, bouffant, puffy curls, tight crinkly curls, curls in fact, in all shapes and sizes. Curls that creep in overnight, and that suddenly appear at lunch. Curls at my forehead, sometime, and curls at my ears, at others. Seldom is there, however, curls all over, the type that makes one think “oh, she has curly hair”. No I just have these random curls. And I curse them.

Adding to this far from uniform head helmet, is the colour of my hair. Very much like my skin, its has fractioned and built alliances, all at war with one another, fighting over what little turf is up there and making the civilians suffer. Instead of my normal, standardized brown, I have a veritable map of Baroque Europe on top, complete with demarcation lines, forgotten loyalties, kings wielding many hued flags and midgets blowing trumpets and biting each others legs.

All in all this makes me a bit of a sepia test for the colour-blind, that which is usually called a muddy puddle with a slick of oil on, needed to tame the worst outbursts of hair-raising folly.

Now, take that muddy puddle and try to make it presentable for work. I have already mentioned the problems regarding colour schemes and patterns: add swelling feet that bar all heels, an AC on the fritz and humidity that boggles the imagination: I sit in plimsolls and a slightly damp and crumpled skirt and top – fanning my burning face and wishing for November.

Or maybe I should just embrace it and call it le nouveau hag?

The Blue Eyed Canard

You know how when you break up with someone, there can be this rather awkward period, before everything is said and done and your off? How this can be even worse, when deep down you feel like singing in the rain cause you’ve met someone new, but you can’t, because your ex is still wearing a crumbly robe and crying at the sight of a toothbrush, feeling cold and clammy at the thought of having to find a replacement to cover half the rent? 

It is sort of the same thing, when you get a new fabulous job, and resign from the old one, and they get sorta pissed at you for pissing off, and then there is this slightly awkward period between handing in your notice and actually walking out the door. Well, that is my life right now. 

I am starting a fun, thrilling, exciting new job on September first – which makes my old fun, thrilling, exciting job something of a drag. I am officially a lame duck, starting no new projects, having no real responsibilities, and spending most of my time trying to drag people away from their work stations for coffee and a chat. Which makes coming back from vacations an bit of a yawn-fest.

But, I figured, this morning, as I mascaraed and put on a structured shirt for the first time in weeks: there must be an upside to being a duck in summer. Namely that, paired with the summer lull, it would give me plenty of time to do other important and rewarding things. Like maybe spell-checking some old entries, find a horse to ride and a man to like, search the web for the perfect fall haircolour and cut, leave quite early, come in quite late, and take quite a lot of quite long lunches. What with all that, plus daily readings of newspapers, all three horoscopes, checking the FUG site and the Permanent Style site, the Chap site and the Onion site, I thought my time was nicely balanced. It was a grand plan, and would have panned out nicely, had it not been for my own damn heart.

Coming into the office today, all relaxed and unsuspecting after the holidays, I got to talking to a colleague. He sat, dejected, with a heavy air and a heavy stubble, bleary eyed and gloomy, staring at a huge heap of papers. Seeing another human being in pain, I immediately asked him what was wrong. Leaping on this kindness very much like a hungry lion would leap on an actual lame duck, he told me all about his awful project, his cancelled vacation, and the mounds and mountains of paper still to get through.

Willing the words to pop back in my mouth as I was uttering them, I heard myself say that, well, since I am not doing much right now, maybe he should give me a call if he needed some tiny bit of assistance…

…And so I sit, my nice little bit of paid free time gone Pete Tong, with approx five weeks of repetitive, mind-numbingly boring, eye-stinging long-winded work before me. The duckling not only clipped of wing but also burdened with a heavy load. And my colleague, free of his worries at last, his desk a newly shining empty space, is hanging round the water-cooler, chatting.

Which goes to show, I guess, that the size of this birds brain is directly inverse to the size of its liver.

Trip: Post Mortem Pro Memoriam

Welli well well. Well. Well, well, well. Ha. I think back to times in my life when I’ve felt smug. There have been a few. But I don’t think a single one of them comes close to this days smugness. It’s smugness on a new level, a degree of self-complanency, of high-horsedness and holier-than-thouism than is really very unattractive.

But I don’t care, because I fit into my old jeans, can talk knowledgably about the stretch of road between East and West Ed, and do an uphill in my sleep. It all feels sooo good. Soon I shall go out to lunch in a very civilized brasserie with a gossip-truffled friend, and then this evening, I will be eating sushi and maybe even going to the movies. Just because they are there.

But before I leave the Uphill behind forever, I want to jot down a few brief impressions, such as may steer other travellers away from the same pitfalls I have fallen into on my journey. I give you: Five Important Lessons on Solo Bicycling Between Ystad and Stockholm, Or Any Other Godforsaken Place and The Civilized World.

1. On dressing the part

Forget your smart linnen pants, your low cut blouse and you strappy sandals. You will not be needing them. You will live in your padded pants all day, and when you get to the hostel at night you will be to knackered to even consider exploring the nightime delights of Gunnebo, Sölvesborg or Timmernabben.

I normally argue that there is no right time for functional materials – you know the type that is part plastic part tinfoil and promises to cool you with a breeze and keep your feet toasty at the same time – because they are so very, very unattractive. I will now go back on this statement and say: there is a right time for such materials: rainy long days on the road. And trust me, it will rain.

Lastly, a word on padded pants. Do not buy them cheap. Do not buy just one pair. They are all that stand between you and a world of rectal hurt, and as such, they should be treated with respect, love and slight awe. Bring an extra slightly tighter fit for the last days – because when it comes to the correct placing of a bag full of bubble-wrap between your legs, size does matter.

2. On asking for directions

Should you be so lucky as to see a real live local on the road: please do your self a favour and ask them for directions (seeing as your map is probably more of an inspiration board than any true guidance). But beware, there are other types out there, ready to pounce on the unwitting cyclist and send her on a varitey of wild bird hunts:

a. The Jogger. They will be friendly looking, sweating profusely, and take into no consideration whatsover that a bicycle cannot traverse all than two feet can.

b. The Madman. Will also be friendly, but also swatting at imaginary flies and follow up his instructions by getting his old bike out and following you at a slow threatening pace at the best part of an hour.

c. The Senile. Again, friendly, and very helpful, only according to their seventies world-view when the new motorway hadn’t been built yet. Never very good at distingushing right from left, but will give you very good stories about her husbands football-socks.

3. On eating and drinking

Do whenever opportunity presents itself. But it won’t.

4. On reading

You do not need to bring more than say, a sparkling new issue of some Condé Nast publication. Comprehending anything beyond the chrystal prose on new looks for fall will be beyond you. On the other hand; looking at all them nice pics will keep you happy, with plenty of incentive to keep pedalling, and with lots of food for thought planning your wardrobe.

Alas, this is not, and I say this from experience, the opportunty to finally saw your way through The Man Without Qualities, both volumes, in hardback.

5. On Being a Citizen of the Road

There will be Caravans out there, and cars, and the occasional piece of motor driven farming equipment. There is only one way to tame these beast of burden: wear very bright colours, stay well out in the middle of the road and flick them the finger if they start honking. Yes, you will be travelling with a very long tail of angry motorists, but that beats being flat. Literally.

 

And so I leave this trip behind. The next serious one will probably be the Transibirian, or another tour of India, over X-mas… But for now: all is blue silk shifts and Ceasar salads for me. You know, comfy, even without the padding.