Stockholm

Lauren and I survived a marathon journey consisting of two plane flights separated by a six hour layover, then a bus-subway-bus combination from the Stockholm airport to our airbnb,  each lugging a disassembled bicycle and all our personal belongings while simultaneously suffering the onset of jet lag.  We had assumed the posture of neanderthals by the time we finished walking the final 500m to our destination. A taxicab might have been smarter but we (i.e. me) were determined to use public transportation.  Lauren will look back on this as the first indication that her traveling companion cannot be depended upon to exercise sound judgement.

Our hosts are thirty something Swedes with a 4 and a 7 year-old and the father and I have much in common, notably that we have both watched many of the same American and Swedish TV shows -- he's a fan of "Portlandia" and I am a fan of "The Bridge".  He had a still-functioning turntable and a  scratch-free collection of LPs retrieved from garage sales; last night he put on Neil Young's "Harvest", which I first listened to under muffin-sized headphones almost 40 years ago when I was  living with my sister in California.  If I had explored his record collection more, I might never have left his house.

We have covered a lot ground on our bicycles and by following our noses have seen much more of the city than we otherwise could by any other means.  We have had to stop frequently to check each other's navigation and have so far prevented ourselves from getting too hopelessly lost. Thank god for phones with GPS, as even with a good bike map it's not been always obvious which direction to go.

 There are masses of bike riders, mostly in casual attire, riding vintage bikes, clunker bikes, hipster bikes, and few if any are in a particular hurry.  There were extremely young riders and extremely old ones. Within the first hour  of our exploring we came upon a father slowly pedaling a bike with his very young daughter sitting serenely in a bike seat behind him;  his wife was nonchalantly bicycling one-handed alongside them, while holding her child's hand with the other. 

Our decision to use AirBnb to stay with a Swedish family has rewarded us.  They live in a town house  15 minutes by bike from the center of the city, and gave us an entire floor to ourselves. We each have our own bedroom,  and they serve us a daily breakfast of homemade bread, hard boiled eggs with a condiment of caviar squeezed from a tube, yogurt with muesli, coffee, and OJ. Their English is impeccable, and their (hilarious) sense of humor is unimpeded even when using  their second language (Jessica the mom speaks another 4 or 5 in addition to Swedish and English). Their kids are adorable, shy at first but warming up more all the time, even though they speak little English themselves.  Upon hearing that I loved dinosaurs when I was her age, the seven year-old  Edith brought a picture  book of them into my room and encouraged me to pronounce "diplodocus" and "stegosaurus" with a Swedish inflection. Today she bicycled 6 to 7 miles round-trip with her parents and younger brother Sigge (he on a bike seat) to an outdoor teenybopper concert;  they got caught in a hailstorm  during their outing but when they got home no one was fazed at all by the inconvenience.  They have given us a glimpse into what looks like an idyllic Swedish family life, nurtured by a system of comprehensive social benefits.  Lauren and I are already angling to immigrate.

So far there have been no disasters other than my constantly being unable to find stuff in my pockets and on one occasion getting locked out of our airbnb for an hour and a half because I had left our set of keys inside. Lauren politely refrained from giving me the stink eye during this and other senior moments.  I have since relinquished the keys, and other tasks requiring half a brain,  to her care.

This is our host's niece at a backyard barbeque, and Lauren, fredrik and Jessica in their back yard.