Trip to Sweden 2010

Part I

Friday, May 7th

Today would be my second attempt to remove my body from the island of Britain.  A few weeks ago, I made efforts to encounter Italy via an airplane but this silly cloud of ashtrays that was created by the eruption of that lame, community college dropout volcano in Iceland halted all air travel in the European airspace for six days. 

My plan now was to visit Sweden and enjoy the indescribable comforts of my dear friends, Margaretha and Cebe (pronounced “say-bay”) Fransen.  But first, I had to wake up which was challenging as the previous night was a late one due to the fact I had a show at the King’s Head Downstairs in Crouch End.  After the show, I socialized adequately.  In particular, I spoke with a fella that very much looked like the Dude in “The Big Lebowski”.  Even his voice resembled Jeff Bridges (more like “The Fisher King” Jeff Bridges) but his demeanor was not like the Dude.  It was more like a respectful intellectual.  That was probably the closest I’ll ever get to meeting Jeff Bridges so I had to make the most of it.

So when I did wake, I got my belongings together, walked to the Piccadilly Line and traveled to Heathrow airport.  I boarded a plane to Copenhagen and then a train to the town of Höör (pronounced slightly like the ancient profession).  And there he was, Cebe himself in his green rubber boots, commanding an older red Nissan pickup truck.  It was a moment both natural and amusing.

After a couple miles of driving, we arrived at their quaint, beautiful farmhouse that was built around 1760.  Surrounded by woods and a couple small fields, this lifestyle speaks of easygoing and restorative possibilities.  I opened the front door and was greeted, gloriously, by Margaretha.  It had been eight years since my last visit but as we spoke, as I knew it would, this chasm of time dissolved immediately.

Within moments of my arrival, we were chatting loosely and I was bombarding my body with such a diverse collection of toxins: scotch, wine, cheese, little cigars, cake and brandy.  Somewhere in this dense fog of vice, I managed to call my sister Jennifer (who is the one that initially befriended the Fransens in France years ago).  Margaretha and I spoke to her for a while and carried on with the night. 

Things became so free that I encouraged them both to watch one of my favorite videos that I made: “Creepy Cowboy Chops Down Tree”.  Let me tell you folks something, you haven’t lived until you’re standing next to a Swedish couple in their 60’s while you watch a video of yourself chopping a tree down in silver pants and no shirt that is accurately set to Madonna’s “Hung Up”.  As the video ended, we all realized the night had reached its full potential and it now being one in the morning, we knew that sleep was the only sound decision.

Saturday, May 8th

Today I awoke and enjoyed a simple breakfast with Cebe in the library.  Afterwards, the two of us headed into town to buy meat, alcohol, medicine and food (in this logical order).  In the main square, we noticed some sort of humble market/festival.  The weather was cool and gray so the crowd was light.  What struck me was the young, broken-down school band that was playing “New York, New York” in a tent.  There were many rebellious notes in their rendition and the resulting sound was one I could only compare with that of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang crashing into a drunken circus band.

This troubled circus music persisted as we entered a supermarket where there was a trio of three young women playing recorders.  I have absolutely no idea why they were playing in a supermarket.  All I can tell you is that the music’s dissonance evoked visions of clown murders and indigestion. 

We then got in our car, we discovered it did not start.  I blamed the bad music.  I think the car heard these tortuous human sounds and wisely decided to have nothing more to do with people.  Fortunately, Cebe’s mother lived very close by so we walked to her apartment in order to borrow her car.  We passed by the band tent and although the band was gone, there was one solitary person playing “Killing Me Softly” on keyboard while an awkward, spread-out crowd of 12 people watched.  All of this music provided the perfect sound track to the mild misfortunes and oddities we were enduring.

The two of us then walked along a path where we passed by a strange event.  A mother and child and their medium-sized dog stood by as a woman and her small dog approached them.  The small dog then buried its face in the backside of the larger dog and just went to work as if it was some gruesome canine medical malpractice procedure.  What makes this occurrence really bizarre is that the larger dog just stood there calmly while all three people watched, smiled and talked.  Not knowing if this is some strange Swedish Saturday afternoon custom, I turned to Cebe and said, “Someone needs to stop that.  Why are they allowing this to happen?”  Cebe also shared my negative reaction to the foul nature of the dog interaction, a reaction that restored my faith in Sweden.

We then made it to his mmother’s, conversed for a while and drove her car back to the house.  After lunch, I followed Cebe back to town in his mother’s car.  For giggles, we pulled up to the ailing auto to see if it would start and it did so we dropped it at a machanic, returned his mother’s car and drove back home.  Some people like to visit museums or famous sites when they travel.  I, on the other hand, like to do errands and feel the brisk sensation of what it might be like to be a taxi driver in a small town. 

After a brief doze and some high-powered writing, I descended to the common living area and into more gustatory decadence that started with some members only, 16-year old, single malt scotch.  As I smelled it, I almost began to close my eyes and recite important events of 1994 as if I were Christopher Lambert drinking a 200-year old liquer and eerily dropping specific factoids of the year that the liquer was born.  This of course happened in the movie “Highlander” which I hope I am but since I don’t have the brass to get stabbed and test it, I’ll just have to wait until I’m 180 years old when I can say, “Indeed.  It appears I am an immortal Highlander.”

From here we dined on fine, thin strips of choice beef that we grilled at the table on a small, electric grill.  The beef was then bathed in blue ribbon sauces, creating an eating experience that should be documented and placed into a time capsule.  This meal morphed into a dessert with tea, brandy and more petit cigars.  I was slowly turning into a 19th century aristocrat that lived in a castle, ran a profitable cologne trading business and solved mysteries in his spare time.

During this great evening brew of relaxtion, we looked at photo albums of various vacations that Cebe and Margaretha had in the US.  Wisely, Margaretha collected various pamphlets from hotels they stayed in.  My favorite was one for a hotel they visited during their trip to Key West.  It showed a picture of a guy in a red Speedo, standing with a cocktail in his hand intently listening to a smiling guy sitting in a chair that was playing guitar and looking like a young Jimmy Buffet.

This reflects an amazing priority of the mid 80’s Key West traveller.  They don’t care about the view or the quality of the room, they want to know if they can get drunk enough to wear a red Speedo and listen/stand next to a Jimmy Buffet cover artist.

She also took a menu from an extremely fancy restaurant that was now 25 years old.  I desperately wanted her and Cebe to travel back to the same restaruant with the old menu and demand the food at the prices quoted on the old menu.  It never ceases to amaze me how my fantasies parallel that of a 60-year old virgin that grew up without toys or a television.

We also discussed, at length, the tender manner that Cebe and Margaretha initiated their space mission to the galaxy of Eternal Romance.  And as it always seems to be, it was merely a matter of the fella coming to his senses.  Oh boy!

Sleep was the final option we exercised on this day.

PART II