Stockholm, Sweden

I had slept for about two and a half hours when I started dreaming about talking fish. There were prints of colorful fish on the hotel's walls, and until I woke up, it had seemed this was the cause of the dream. The little window of TAP Portugal had tiny ice-crystals making bb gun prints below the plastic shade. After the skinny fish, this was the first thing I saw. And then, the man beside me, who had began a delicate process of unpacking and preparing his airplane meal. I gathered from this that he had traveled a similar course several times before, it was as if he had sat down at the table, waiting for his wife to bring a glass of water, no, something warm, like kaffe latte and join the meal. It explained the fishy smell. I wondered where his wife was and I had the urge to say, "Marco" because I imagined his name was Marco. The most was happening at the moment, fish, ice crystals, and some man, perhaps named Marco, were all swirling around me from the dizziness of compressed oxygen and jet speed travel. A hostess smiled and said, "don't you want your food?" I smiled and she pushed the attention button. The dark -haired lady motioned to one in the back who brought a hot plastic covered tray of fish, mushrooms, salad and bread. There was dessert and salad sauce, or written the Portuguese way, sauce salad, as well as keeping with the European tradition, a miniature cup for espresso.

The man beside me began a conversation. He was quite nice. For sake of reference, he will be Marco. Marco was Portuguese, who'd fallen in love with a Swedish lady. And yes, I like the hybridity of everything, and doubt I could have had a better welcome to Sweden. I ate a bit of the meal and we talked about things until the plane flew over Paris, I believe, that's when I began to dream again.

The plane landed and there waiting at the airport (the little tunnel connecting the terminal to the plane) were police in all black with boots and German Shepherds. Something about the whole thing was ease-putting and it was nice the see both the police and the dogs.

I waited a while for my luggage. Not thinking about much. Just waiting. When it arrived I changed 50 euro and began to walk. A blonde haired man, I suppose he was in his late or earlies, with high top boots had seen me arranging my luggage and smiled. It was a friendly smile. For sure I smiled back, however, it was a reference smile, a return smile, pleasant, but distant. I needed to figure things out.

I walked through the airport to catch a bus to Centraal Station. It seemed as if no one was bothered by helping. They pulled out GPS, they walked me to the correct place, they turned to their friends and said something in Swedish and then gave me directions Can you imagine? I was hesitant to believe this was something cultural, I assumed it was influx with the transience of the airport and the giant welcome sign I'd been so happy to see. These, I thought, were just residual bits of kindness.

I took the bus into the city. Judging from the highway, Audi and Volvo's are the cars of choice. Something about sedans was so refreshing, it felt like home.

Time had passed trying to find my room. The hotel. Quite obviously it was not the Ritz Carlton though, the address had lead me to a building that would have sufficiently housed one. I stepped in, wondering how less than 150 euro a night had bought a share in this building. There was no hotel sign on the elevator markee, a man, he had black skin, fitted pants, and a Swedish accent stepped in and said, "hey, hey" which in Swedish, is "Hello."

"I see" he said, when I explained that I needed help. He asked if I had a number, which I had, and called the hotel. The conversation was in English and when it was finished he told me to come back if I was lost and someone in the office would help.

When I arrived, I set my things down and rested on the bed, sitting up and looking forward. I found myself in Stockholm. The weather was mild to cold. The time had switched back and hour and Fashion Week was posted all up and down the shopping district. I wanted to explore, but, I wanted to relax. I did not want to be left to my thoughts, no one knows where they would lead. I don't believe every moment in solitude is meant for deep or retrospective thought, so, I washed my hands and face and went to buy a ticket from Stockholm to Copenhagen for the coming days and, to see the city.

Stockholm is amazing. It seemed as though there was a different breed. The masses were so well dressed and outfitted with such style, I, one, two, checked myself. Everyone whether black, brown, white, or beige seemed beautiful. What is this place I wondered? The adventure had then begun.

I met a homie from California: a photographer, a student, a writer. I could dig it. And when the Nigerian footballer, whom we'd both met, had asked if I would come with him to his county, the homie from California was like a confidant. Was I going to his country, of course not, but delgado had told me to take the compliment, why wasn't I deserving of admiration "what is there not to like?" he had said. The lesson had come. And, when I thought about the pasta al forno, the tira misu, the stuffed croissants, and pizza that had deposited extra weight on my hips and thighs in Italy, it was ok. No, not, the weight, but the compliments, and acceptance, the dare to know nothing is wrong and in fact, everything is ok. Everything is amazing. Tomorrow, when I run, or sit under some sunset with my red writing book, or walk along new places thinking of ways I will teach my children self-reliance, it will be more than just fine, it will be- beautiful.

Tell me something. Tell me anything. First, tell me your name. Your favorite color, your favorite city, your dream. Tell me how to say hello in your language and you have taught me something worthwhile.

I spent the morning in the Dance museum and decided to take a boat along the Swedish archipelago. I spent six hours going along the Baltic Sea, staring from the water at Stockholm, which is something like Ivy Road stretched across 14 islands. I thanked God for everything. It was about 9 and the sun had not boiled into the sea, it was quite cold. I headed back.

What is there to do in Stockholm? Well, what is there not to do. It seemed like a haven for the subtle maverick. No muzzle, no brand, just cuffed pants and red RL frames.

Hej fred. [hey fred] That means, "hello, peace" in Swedish