Real talk, I was gonna roll my Scandinavian summer romp into one of those just-keeping-warm-in-a-cold-winter-throuple sort of grouped posts for my Top Ten Travel rankings seven, six, and five. Denmark, Norway, Sweden. Maybe it is more like a Scandinavian gang of sorts. Either way… I was gonna. I damn sho nuff forget is what I do. Timespace god damnit. Why is six afraid of seven? Tune in next week. Right now right now, this all means that this will be a short on words send off to a city I might like more than Copenhagen. TBD. Let’s go back to how I get Sweded. Long time syndrome-seeker, first time visitor. I take it in and document less while here. Oh shit. My 76 year old mom just got her nose pierced, completely out of the blue. We ain’t in Malmo, toto. All of everything happening right now. At the same time. I can’t write any of it down. Failed documentarian, successful experiencer. I watch and listen and smell and maybe photograph. The real research and development. I need coffee number seventy seven now on my fourth day here. Needs are real. Maslow meet Pavlov.

Be Kind Rewind to me lavishing in the reality of the archipelago that is the city of Sweden. Proper. Hammer would say that. Here on this bench, that’s where I’ve running-manned my American ass to – a nice 4 mile jog from our apartment in the historic center to this point… at the footsteps of a national fucking park. Which, once we’re rewound fully, I’ll walk and jog and bench a few more miles through. Enjoy The Silence. Thinking in relaxation amongst flora and fauna on a tranquil and cool morning in August. Mos Def. Favorite activities include deeply breathing through my nose. Walking around foreign cities for the first time. Making eye contact with beautiful dogs walked by strikingly exquisite women, whispering silently with my third eye and watching them slowly and inquisitively come towards me (the dogs, of course). Humans of every variety smiling. Parkways and parks and — holy shit did I just stumble into a speakeasy doubling as a flower shop? Yes. Yes I did. Ja.

Having foregone most alcohol until this point in my aforementioned travel romp, I proceed to dive the fuck in and indulge in the interesting cocktail menu, the pretentiously beautiful atmosphere, the interesting customers seated near me at the bar, basically er’thing. Eventually, my sister and nephew find me out and decide to “stop in for one” on their way to a museum, which is when I realize how much easier it was for me to just wander in earlier. Neph is unimpressed, though he has been living in Florida for a few years now. They leave. I stay. Eventually, I decide I’d like to keep moving. I think. I walk out, realizing its still daylight and I conveniently omitted the fact that I’m still in Stockholm from my current brainscape.

Magnetize yourself, Jack Black. Later. Like in a that-place-had-top-50-bar-in-the-world-awards kinda time later, this current version of free public toilet has elevator music and is now thanking me for visiting, it’s jarringly loud robotic British English white man voice — it’s hoping I’m satisfied with this service. Weird. I’m glad it’s free and clean and actually the best public toilet I’ve seen in a minute. I get another 3-4 mile jog in as the sun is setting on what is I think the 8th Stockholm island I’ve now footed to. Like 17-20 miles on the day, fully Sweded.